fell the angels
by viennacantabile
Summary: And in the end, what will survive of us is love. Ice and Velma, and the West Side Story that changes everything. twenty-seven: the black mirror.
1. forward

Disclaimer: If it looks familiar, Leonard Bernstein, Stephen Sondheim, Jerome Robbins, Arthur Laurents, and Ernest Lehman wrote it. If it doesn't, I did. Simple and easy. :)

Note: I have been working on this fic for almost a year now, ever since I watched _West Side Story_ again last July and rediscovered how incredible it is. I never thought I would actually finish or post this, but during that time, I've met some wonderful people who are responsible for nearly all the fics I have written since, whom I will tell you about later on. I had wanted to wait to post this until I finished it, but the end of the semester is here and I've been really busy. However, I do have about sixty-three percent of it done, so updates will hopefully be every Friday. Side note: I'm sorry about the length of this chapter (as well as this initial author's note)—it's easily the longest chapter out of the eventual twenty, and I couldn't stop it. Future chapters should be much more manageable, though. :) In any case, this is the fic I've been working on the longest, focused on my two favorite characters, and as such, it's very close to my heart. Ice and Velma fascinate me—who they are, how they work, and what they are together. Though it's not necessary, you may want to read my fics catch the moon, the passing grade, words left unspoken, and seven kisses, as this ridiculously-long fic more or less references and ties them all together in my attempt to understand these characters.

For: **HedgehogQuill**. This fic would not be anything close to what it is without her, and I can't thank her enough for pushing me to finish it.

Proper credit: goes to** HedgehogQuill**, again, as many of the characterizations and details were thought out in collaboration with her, as **LCV Productions**. This fic references her own novelization of _West Side Story_, _Now It Begins_, which is awesome and incredibly helpful to me, so even though it's unnecessary to read hers to understand mine, I would definitely recommend taking a look. Also, I used **LindyHop's** idea behind Riff's name; her fic, "The Beginning of the End," is one of the first (and best) WSS fics I have ever read and deserves more attention. It's under the M section, though it could just as easily be K+ or T, in my opinion.

Finally: Happy Birthday, Tucker Smith. You are missed. This chapter is for you. And also Carole D'Andrea, because I absolutely love her. Without these amazing actors, this fic would not exist.

—viennacantabile

* * *

fell the angels

one : forward

.

It is an illusion that youth is happy, an illusion of those who have lost it; but the young know they are wretched, for they are full of the truthless ideals which have been instilled into them, and each time they come in contact with the real they are bruised and wounded.

—W. Somerset Maugham, Of Human Bondage

.

So many feelings fit between two heartbeats  
so many objects can be held in our two hands  
Don't be surprised we can't describe the world  
and just address things tenderly by name

—Zbigniew Herbert, "Never of You"

.

Today is payday.

At five years old, John Kelly Callahan already knows what that means. On payday, his father comes home with just half the money he's made that month, stinking of booze and liquor and worse. On payday, his mother cries and cries and won't stop. On payday, John crouches, shivering and shaking and waiting in the dark under the covers for it to be over. Sometimes, it's slow, and sometimes it's quick, but it's never done 'til the screaming is burned into his memory through all the pillows and blankets he stuffs over his ears.

In the morning when his teacher comes over to check his work, he looks up at her. She has lots of dark brown hair and soft eyes and a nice smile and John thinks she will understand.

But when he tells her in a shallow whisper that something is terribly, horribly wrong, his pretty teacher just looks confused. "Who's hurting her, John?"

He hesitates, because his mother has always told him that the dark purple bruises on her skin are just accidents. But even at five John knows what he sees and he knows what he hears at night. It is not an accident.

In the afternoon, his teacher comes to their small apartment and admires his mother's lace and listens to her pretty Irish voice and asks if everything is all right. John's mother smiles and says of course it is. John sees her hands shaking, but he doesn't know if his teacher does. It doesn't matter, though, because his father is home and today is a good day, he can tell. He smiles a lot and John can see that his teacher isn't worried anymore, that his is a happy loving family. He's lucky. And today, John believes it, too.

He thinks it will be okay. He can still remember when his mother sang all the time and his father came home early with all the money from work and everything was good. Because it was, once upon a time, and tonight is a lot like it was back then.

But when his teacher leaves it doesn't take long before the shouting starts again and this time it is worse than it ever was before because after awhile when his mother has stopped sobbing John's father comes into his room and it's not his father standing there, it can't be, because fathers are supposed to love their children and no one who loved his son would ever hurt him like this.

The next day, when Mrs. Gambini asks if everything is well at home, John tugs the sleeves of his shirt down and nods. At five, he is a fast learner.

.

At five years old, Vilhelmina Christina Andersen is irresistibly curious about the world.

"What's that, _Pappa_?" she asks, pointing at something long and shiny hanging from her father's neck. Today she is at the clinic with her father because according to him, it is Take Your Youngest Daughter to Work Day, and even though she's not quite sure that day really exists, Vilhelmina is excited anyway. She has a white coat to wear and her blonde hair is tied back and she feels like a real grown-up East Side doctor, just like her father. She's never been allowed at work before, and she wants to see something _happen_.

"That's a stethoscope, Vilhe," says Dr. Andersen, taking it off and handing it to her.

"What can you use it for?" she wonders, blue eyes wide. She traces the long, skinny arms with her fingertips. It looks like a toy to play with, but she knows it is not. This is what her father uses to make sure kids just like her are healthy and all right. This is what he uses to help people.

Her father smiles. "I'll show you." He takes the stethoscope and settles the ends carefully in her ears, then rests the rounded disc against his chest. "Hear that?"

Vilhelmina listens. There's a faint kind of thudding, thumping noise. It tickles. "Yes."

"Well," says Dr. Andersen, "that's my heart."

She blinks. "Does mine do that too?"

He smiles. "Yes, it does. Here, listen." And he moves the chest piece over her heart.

It's even quieter than her father's, but it's there, beating steadily. "Wow," she whispers. "Wow."

.

John is seven years old when he comes home and his mother tells him with a smile that she is going to have another baby. He is going to be a big brother.

John is excited, because all the kids at school have brothers or sisters and they say it's lots of fun, at least before they start crying and spitting up all over the place. And John knows that if his mother has a baby it will be one step closer to being a normal family, just like everyone else. Maybe having another kid around will bring his real father back to him, since John can't do it all by himself. Maybe.

But then his father comes home and it's clear he's been tossing back liquor like water and instead of being happy like John and his mother hope he will be, he just scowls. That's all the warning they have before his mother reels under the force of Mr. Callahan's backhand.

"John—go to your room—" she gasps, and John, terrified and heartbroken and ashamed of himself, runs and buries himself under layers and layers of clothes and pillows and blankets and anything he can reach to muffle the sound, but it's no use: he can still hear everything. And John grits his teeth and wishes he could be big enough to stop his father. To make a difference. Anything so he never has to listen to this nightmare again.

In the morning, John creeps to his parents' bed, where his mother greets him with shadows under her eyes. He doesn't say anything, just looks at her.

She made a mistake, she tells him, avoiding his eyes. To John her voice always sounds like music, but today the melody is gone. He is not going to be a big brother, after all.

John's gaze does not move an inch.

She's very tired, his mother goes on, and she's just going to spend some time in bed today.

John wants to scream and shout and hit something and _hurt something_ because she _didn't_ make a mistake, he _was _going to be a big brother, and someone needs to help them but no one is and how much does his mother think he is going to believe, anyway? He clenches his fists. If only he were bigger. Someday, he promises himself, someday, things will be different.

.

"Vil-hel-mi-na Andersen?" asks the girl with the long brown braids on the first day of second grade. "That's a long name. Don'tcha have a nickname?"

Vilhelmina blinks. "My _mamma_ and _pappa_ call me Vilhe."

The girl frowns. "But that sounds like a _boy's_ name. Like Willie, or something."

Vilhelmina shrugs. She's used to it, and no one has ever complained about her name before.

"Anyway, it doesn't sound American," says the brunette girl solemnly. "It sounds like a _Commie_ name."

Vilhelmina's eyes widen. "But I'm not a Commie. And my parents aren't, either. They're Swedish."

The girl shakes her head wisely. "Tell that to the _government_ when they come to getcha, Willie."

Vilhelmina bites her lip. She is perfectly happy with her name, but what if this girl is right? "Well, what else could you call me?"

The brunette thinks for a moment. "Well, there's…Violet. An' Wilma. Or maybe Velma."

One of them, at least, sounds nice. "Velma," she says, thoughtfully tasting the sound of the third name on her lips. "Velma Andersen."

"That's a real American name," the girl tells her approvingly. She sticks out her hand. "I'm Ecaterina Radescu."

Vilhelmina stares at her for a moment. "A real American name," she repeats, nonplussed.

"Yup," the brunette says happily. "But you can call me Catie."

.

At ten, John is a swift, wiry kid, quick enough to dodge and scramble out of the way before his father can get to him. It's not often that you'd find a bruise or scratch on him. Not someplace visible, anyway.

But today just happens to be that one time out of a hundred that he wasn't fast enough the night before. There's a dark, angry starburst right around his left eye, and all day long people have been staring at him. So it's no surprise when his teacher takes him to see the school social worker. There is the obligatory how are you, I see you're doing all right in school, no sports? that's a shame, and then Mr. Benowitz gets down to business. That's an awful big shiner you got there, son.

John sits there stone-faced. It was an accident. He fell. Everything's all right. Don't call his mother. Definitely don't call his father. No, he doesn't need ice. He is fine. He is fine.

He can't tell if they believe him or not, but what he does know is they let him go. Outside, John aches to wrap his fist around something and squeeze 'til it bursts, releases the tension inside of him. But he doesn't. He never does. Instead he snaps his pencil into two, four, six, eight splintered little pieces and dumps them in the trash can.

The social worker has followed him out into the hall and is looking at him. "John—"

John pushes past him. No matter what the man says or does, John has learned by now that it never makes a difference in the end.

.

"Tap it through gently. This will make the cake lighter."

Mrs. Andersen's soft voice, murmuring instructions in Swedish, is deeply hypnotic, and Velma, sifting flour through wire mesh, feels as though her mother is singing a lullaby as she watches the fine white powder drift down to settle in dusty hills, just like snow.

"My _mamma_ taught me how to make almond cake when I was ten, too," Mrs. Andersen. She has been in America since she was twenty but still she feels nervous speaking in a language that is not her own. "You'll teach your daughter, too, won't you?"

Velma answers her in English, and now, as always, they understand each other perfectly. "I will, _mamma_. But that's a long time away."

Mrs. Andersen smiles. "That's what I thought, too, when I was your age."

Velma makes a face as she taps the last of the flour through the sifter. "I don't like any of the boys at school. They're stuck-up and too loud."

"Maybe they just don't know how to talk to you," suggests her mother, smoothing Velma's hair.

Velma frowns. "They talk _too much_. And then whenever something bad happens they go running to their _mammas_."

Mrs. Andersen laughs. "Better that than not speaking to their _mammas_ at all, hmm? But don't worry," she says, her soft voice gentle and sure, "they will change in a few years. You'll see. They just have some growing up to do. Now," she goes on, "it's time to mix the batter."

Velma smiles. This is her favorite part, not least because she gets to taste-test to make sure it's perfect. "Maybe," she allows, dusting her hands off on her apron, because it is impolite to contradict an adult, especially her own mother. "In a few years."

Maybe, she thinks again to herself, but she doubts it.

.

John is beating up two kids who jumped him looking for lunch money when he sees two more approach, grins plastered all over their faces. John, wary, watches them as they near.

"Damn, kid," the taller one says, an admiring look in his wide eyes, "you got a fist like a hammer."

"Hey, where'd ya learn to hit like that?" the shorter, stockier one chimes in.

He doesn't answer. For John, fighting is about the quickest way to take his opponent out. No fuss, no frills, just brute efficiency. And the truth that no one wants to hear is that he learned to fight by watching his old man, night after night. Belly. Eye. Jaw. Every place it hurts the most, right in the kisser. The truth is John knows how to pick his punches for maximum impact on the human body because he's been the test subject in the world's best lab experiment for fifteen years.

"So, ah, we been lookin' for a kid like you," says the taller boy when it becomes obvious that John is not about to say anything. "You in a gang?"

He shakes his head.

The second one grins. "Ya wanna be?"

John gives a noncommittal shrug. All he knows about gangs is that they hang around together and scare other kids off their streets. The Emeralds, that's one he's heard of, because a bunch of the other Irish kids have been coming around lately, and John figures they're looking at him to see if they want him. But gang or no gang, it doesn't matter to him. "Don't got nothin' against it."

"Ah, he speaks," laughs the second one. His grin stretches wider. "Well, if you're gonna be in our gang, buddy-boy, you're gonna need a name."

John eyes the two boys. In the past year or two he's taken to sticking with his middle and mother's maiden name; it's not like his father has ever given him anything worthwhile, anyway. "John Kelly."

"John?" asks the kid, making a face. "Don't get me wrong, that's a great name, but man, you're crewin' with the _best_ now. You need a _cool_ name."

John shrugs again.

The other one snaps his fingers. "Riff, I got it. Cool, right? Like this kid, who don't look like nothin' ever bothers him." He grins. "How about…Ice?"

Ice, he thinks, turning the name over in his mind, Ice.

"That good?" asks the taller one, blue eyes open and happy. This is the kind of kid who's got the world at his feet already, and John can almost swear he used to know what that felt like. Once.

He nods.

"Fan-fuckin'-tastic," says the stockier one. He can't be more than fourteen, but the swear word rolls off his tongue easily. "Welcome to the Jets, Ice." He cracks a smile. "Ya don't talk much, do ya?"

John doesn't answer this. "Who else's in the Jets?"

The first boy grins. "Well, there's me—Tony Wyzek—an' Riff Lorton, here," he says, thumping the other boy on the arm. "Kid's gotta name, but it's a real doozy an' his own grandma wouldn't take him seriously if he used it, an' God knows the girliest gang in the world wouldn't either. It's a big secret, 'kay, an' I really wish I could tell ya since you're a Jet now an' all, but I promised the kid I wouldn't ever tell anyone his real name's _Ralph_."

Riff lunges at Tony, and they spend the next few minutes wrestling until Tony gets Riff into a head lock and the stockier kid gives. John just watches, bemused.

"An' now there's you," continues Tony breezily, getting up and dusting himself off like nothing's happened. "Oh, an' Ricky, a-course. He's off chasin' girls right now, or somethin'."

"_One_ girl," grumbles Riff, springing to his feet. "That redheaded chick who keeps him on a string."

"So yeah," finishes Tony, flashing a bright grin, "the four-a us for now. Some gang, huh?"

John half-smiles. "Yeah," he says, wondering what he's gotten himself into, "some gang."

.

Velma tentatively pushes the door to her sisters' room open. "Kat?" she calls. "Are you in here?"

There's a flicker at the corner of her eye as Velma's eighteen year-old sister Katrina starts guiltily at the window. "Oh, hi, Vel," she says, a sheepish smile on her face. "What's up?"

Velma closes the door behind her and comes closer. "Astrid won't like that."

Katrina takes a quick drag from her now-exposed cigarette and blows the smoke out the window with a laugh. "Don't tell her, and she won't know. _Mamma_ or Dad, either." She pats the bed next to her. "C'mon, Vel, tell me what ya want."

Velma eyes her, then crosses from Astrid's pin-neat side to Katrina's half of the room, which looks like an explosion of clothes, shoes, and hats has just gone off. There might as well be a line drawn down the floor. "Kat," she says, "some of my friends were talking about the older girls, and their makeup, and I was just wondering—"

"If I could show you how?" Katrina grins and flicks her cigarette onto the street below. "Baby sister, I thought you'd never ask. C'mon." Jumping up, she grabs Velma's hand, drags her over to her cluttered vanity, and plunks her down.

Fifteen minutes later, Velma looks at herself in the mirror and gasps. The face that gazes back at her is unmistakably older, lips and cheeks blushing with color and blue eyes neatly outlined. She does not, Velma thinks with amazement, look like a kid anymore. "Kat—"

"You're so cute, Vel," beams Katrina. "D'ya want me to do your hair now?"

Before she can answer, though, the door opens again and tall, slim Astrid walks in. She stops when she sees her younger sisters. "Katrina, what are you doing?"

The blonde smirks. "Just helpin' little Vel out. Don't be a killjoy, big sis, it's just a little lipstick."

"She's _thirteen_," Astrid says primly, putting her hands on her hips. "Vilhelmina doesn't need to be wearing that yet, Katrina." She sniffs. "Even if you did it when you were ten, not everyone else wants to."

Katrina rolls her eyes. "Just 'cause _you_ didn't wear makeup until you were old enough to _legally_ drink doesn't mean the rest of us are that boring."

Velma, sensing a fight coming, pipes up: "Astrid, I asked her to do it."

Astrid is not amused. "That doesn't mean she should indulge you. And I am _not_ boring."

Katrina sticks her tongue out. "Are too."

"Are not—" Astrid stops, visibly sniffs the air, and glares. Velma cringes. "Katrina, please tell me you haven't been smoking in our room again."

Katrina smirks. "Astrid, I haven't been smoking in our room again."

The twenty year-old looks outraged. "Don't lie to me!"

"Well, you told me to say it," Katrina says innocently. "Don't tell me if you don't want to hear it."

Astrid purses her lips. "Katrina—"

"I, um—I'm gonna go," says Velma faintly, getting up and edging for the door. "I have to, um—go. Now."

Her two sisters don't even pause, and as Velma closes the door behind her, she breathes a sigh of relief. Velma loves her family more than anything, but sometimes she wonders what it would be like to be an only child.

At least it would be quieter, Velma imagines with a small smile as she slips back into her room.

.

The silence is unbearable.

John's mother speaks less and less as time goes by, and as much as he hated the screaming before, this is so much worse. It's like she's vanishing, dissolving into thin air, and he can't do anything to stop it.

So John, mute and helpless to change things at home, stops trying. For the first time now, he has buddies to hang out with whenever he wants to escape, and none of them cares why he's with them—just that he's there. John has never had anyone but his mother before, and it's a real rush, running down the streets with the wind at their backs, chasing adventure. They're growing now, picking up more kids and making a name for themselves, and John wants to be there for all of it—every single moment that makes him indescribably glad Tony and Riff found him on the street that day. So he trades his time at home with his time in the alleys and even though he feels guilty, he brushes it aside.

His mother worries, of course. It's what she does because it's all she _can_ do. "John," she says one night, voice soft, "I wish you wouldn't see those boys so much."

He shrugs it off. "Don't worry about them, Ma," he says easily. "Tony an' Riff're good kids."

"I know they are," she agrees hesitantly. "But you're stayin' out late, and not doin' your schoolwork, and I just don't know, John."

He half-smiles. "It's Ice, Ma."

She reluctantly smiles back. "I just don't know."

"Don't worry," John says again, dropping a kiss on her cheek. He is already heading for the door. "I'm fine."

And if that is starting to become true in any way, he thinks, it's because of the Jets.

.

Velma is fourteen when Robbie Lawrence walks up to her and, without preamble, asks her to go for an ice cream Friday after school. And Velma, surrounded by her half-swooning friends, blinks and nods a startled _yes_ before she knows it.

Robbie is only just round the corner when Marjorie, Helen, and Laura let out a high-pitched squeal as one.

"_Velma_!" breathes Laura, looking thunderstruck. "Your first _date_!"

"I always knew he'd make a move one day," says Marjorie in a very satisfied voice. "Remember when he said you were pretty and kissed you in kindergarten?"

"He kissed you, too!" protests Velma. "All three of you!"

"Don't think we don't know it was only 'cause you paid him in cake to do it so we'd shut up," Helen reminds her with a wicked giggle. "Gee, I wonder if that's what he's looking for now—_cake_."

Velma elbows her, but she can't help flushing because to tell the truth, she _does_ remember kindergarten, and she wonders if he does, too.

She gets her chance to ask on Friday when they are standing outside the ice cream shop with their cones, but Velma is feeling uncharacteristically shy. It _is_ her first date, after all, and Robbie, if not absolutely perfect—but then, no boy ever is—is very, very nice. So instead she takes another lick of her vanilla ice cream.

Robbie smiles a little. "You've got ice cream on your lip." He reaches up with his thumb to wipe it off, but when he's done, his hand stays there, resting lightly on her cheek as his blue eyes gaze straight into hers. "God, you're pretty," he murmurs, and Velma feels a jolt of excited recognition hit her before he leans forward and kisses her and no, it is not like kindergarten at all, it's sweet and soft and better, so much better.

Later when he is walking her home he grins at her. "Wish I'd done that sooner."

Velma blinks. "But you did. Don't you remember?"

Robbie laughs. "I'd remember with a girl like you." His voice is sure and confident and bright. The sun is setting now, and with the light behind him it's hard to see his face.

After a pause, Velma smiles. No, she supposes with some regret, life doesn't work out neat and perfect that way. "Yeah," she says. "I guess you would."

.

By the time John is sixteen, he's not hiding under the covers anymore.

"Dad," he says grimly. "You're drunk. Leave her alone."

"You stay outta this!" warns his father, advancing toward his cringing mother.

But John stands his ground. He is not five years old anymore, and he'll be damned if he is going to let this happen tonight. "No."

His father glares at him. "You shut up, ye hear me?"

"Dad," he repeats levelly. "Stop."

His father makes a disgusted noise and pitches his fist at his son. He probably doesn't mean to actually hit him—there is a clear difference between this wild, careless swing and the usual hard, focused blow—but by this time John has spent too long reacting in a split-second to other boys' punches. He sees it coming, he counters. It's not a choice anymore, and before he knows it, John's fist is crashing into his father's jaw.

Sean Callahan staggers back, disbelief in his face, and John is breathing hard and he didn't mean to do it, but he doesn't regret it, not at all. He'd do it again, a thousand times, and he's only sorry he didn't sooner. But for their breathing there is absolute silence. None of them—not his father, his mother, or John himself—can believe what has just happened.

There is a strangled, choked half-sob from the corner where Mary Callahan is huddled, and with that whimper her husband comes to life again.

"You get outta this house right now!" bellows his father, clutching his face. "I never want te see ye again, never!"

John stares at him. That is just fine with him, he thinks dizzily. He's wasted too much time here anyway. The only reason he's stayed so long is—

He turns on his heel and faces his mother. "I'll come see you."

Her already pale face blanches. "No—don't go, he doesn't mean it—"

"Yes, I do!" snaps his father. "_Get out_!"

So he does, turns his back on his parents and heads for his window and clatters down the fire escape into the night. John can't get his mother's face out of his mind. He hadn't had a choice, true—and even if he wanted to, he couldn't go back—but that is not exactly comforting when he thinks about her all alone in that apartment with no escape. John has the Jets, but Mary Callahan only has her son, and now she doesn't even have that anymore. He wanders the streets for awhile, his mind a tumble of half-connected thoughts, but there's really only one place he can go.

When he thumps at Tony's window, he's not sure what's going to happen. He knows that Riff lives with Tony and his family for some reason no one wants to talk about, but he figures that's different; Riff and Tony have been buddies forever, and John is a Jet, sure, but really he's just the kid they picked out for his uncanny ability to knock someone out in three seconds. What is he to them?

Tony pops up in front of the window, hair sticking up and fists rubbing sleep from his eyes. "Ice-man," he greets, yawning as he shoves the glass up. Riff is sprawled out on one of the two tiny beds crammed into the room. "What's up?

John is quiet for a minute. "I need a place to stay."

Tony eyes him curiously for a long moment, then staggers over to Riff, yanks the pillow out from under his head, and tosses it and an extra blanket on the floor. "Jets is family. You can crash there." And within seconds he's flopped back onto his bed and is snoring again.

John stares at the sleeping Tony incredulously. Family, he repeats in his mind with a sense of wonder. Is this what that word means?

Try as he might, Ice can't sleep at all that night.

.

"James—Jamie, no," Velma says, pushing the tall, sandy-haired boy back with some effort and yanking her skirt down. "That's enough." They are supposed to be studying in his room, but her boyfriend clearly has a different view of hitting the books than she does—Velma hasn't been able to keep his hands off her for the last twenty minutes.

James groans, dragging his hand through his hair. "Vel, look, it's been months; don't you think we've waited long enough?" He reaches for her waist again, blue eyes dark and intense. "You don't know what it's like for a guy."

But Velma pushes him away again. "Jamie, stop."

James sighs. "You're the only girl in the whole school who'd say no, Vel. You're the one I want, but…don't you _like _me?"

"Of course I like you!" Velma reassures him quickly. And she does. For the most part, James Richardson is a nice boy, charming and handsome and a very good kisser. But still… "I just—nice girls don't do that, Jamie, you know that."

James eyes her for a moment, then rolls his eyes. "Fine," he says, frustrated, scooting away from her with a huff. "Have it your way."

Velma bites her lip. "Jamie, I'm—"

"You wanted to study," he says, grabbing their English book and settling it over his lap. "Let's study."

She is undecided as to whether or not she should cry when he breaks things off two days later. On the one hand, Jamie is a real catch, as she is quickly reminded of when she sees him with Catie Radescu that same afternoon. But on the other, that doesn't change the fact that Velma knows it wasn't just that she didn't want to give it up—it's that she didn't want to give it up to _him_. It's a small difference, but it is there all the same. If—when—she _does _share that part of herself with someone else, Velma doesn't want there to be any regrets afterward. If Jamie is the kind of boy to dump her over this, she supposes with a sigh, there would have been. And that is not good enough for her. Not by a long shot.

.

A few months later, Ice gets word that his old man's dead. Killed in a bar fight over a spilled mug of booze and a bad hand of poker.

He's not surprised at all, and he doesn't much care. But he knows his mother will (he doesn't understand how, but she's never stopped loving the bastard) and so Ice moves back in, takes care of her, ignores how she jumps at the smallest noise and tries to pretend the shadows under her eyes don't grow larger and larger every time he leaves. She'll be all right, Ice tells himself. She has to be.

"Don't go," she asks him one night. "I know what you boys do and where you go, and it isn't safe. Don't go, John."

He thinks about it, for a minute, but he's not John anymore, he's Ice, and he has spent too long wandering the night to stop now. He needs it, craves it, wants to be _out there_ in the open instead of this cramped gloomy apartment that presses in and suffocates him every time he enters it. Ice loves his mother. There is no question about that. But to give up his new life of no boundaries, to keep himself here—Ice isn't sure he can do that.

"I'll be fine, Ma," he tells her. There is the ring of absolute truth in his voice because he believes every word he is saying. He is young, strong, there is nothing out there that can hurt him. "Don't worry. Nothin's gonna happen to me."

His mother gazes at him, pale blue eyes troubled. "Someone's always leavin'," she whispers with a wistful sigh.

Ice doesn't quite understand this, but the lingering sense of guilt he has is reason enough to reach out and hold his mother close. He loves her. And she loves him. And this is what it is.

After a moment, Ice releases her and heads to the door. He doesn't look back. The Jets are lifting weapons tonight in the old auto lot, and he's already late.

.

Velma is a few weeks shy of her sixteenth birthday when her father comes home and says to them all that he's been thinking about this for awhile, and now that Astrid and Katrina have left the house (both through marriage, though they only found out about Katrina's when she called them from Atlantic City to let them know), it seems like a good time to tell them: Dr. Andersen is taking a job in a hospital. In West Side. The pay is lower, and he'll need to be on call at short notice. They are moving.

Velma sits still for a moment. That's an interesting birthday present.

Peter is skeptical. Why, he wants to know, if the pay is lower, is he taking the job?

Dr. Andersen regards his fourteen year-old son calmly. "Because they need good doctors," he says, "and now that your sisters are married we can live on less money."

"How soon are we going to go?" asks Christoffer. Velma knows what he is worried about: her twelve year-old brother is shy. Starting over in a new neighborhood, she thinks, will be especially hard for him. For her, too—after all, Velma's got her friends here—but she's heard bad things about West Side and she's not sure it's a place for her quiet little brother.

Dr. Andersen glances at his wife. "In a month," he answers. "After your sister's birthday."

Velma gazes at her father. "And you really want to do this?"

He gives a firm nod. "Yes. I can _help_ there, make a difference."

Velma thinks about this. Her father is a doctor, and she can't imagine what it must be like to hold all those peoples' lives in his hands. It's a big responsibility. And he is doing this because he thinks he can still do more. It's not fair, of course it's not, but how is Velma supposed to tell her father she doesn't want to go? That's not what he's always taught her, and even though she doesn't exactly feel like putting on scrubs and wading waist-deep into a room full of crying kids like her father will have to, a resigned Velma can't deny that this is the right thing to do. She sighs.

"Well," she says, "I hope the people won't be _too_ dirty over there."

Her father laughs, looking relieved. "Keep an open mind," he says with a small smile. "They might surprise you."

.

Being a Jet, Ice has figured out, is pretty simple. Sure, there's protocol for war-councils and rumbles and all that jazz, but the gist of it boils down to this: find your piece of turf. Stake your claim. And then hold it, with everything you have, because sure as hell someone is going to come along and try to take it away from you.

And they do try, because that is life. Once or twice, like when a bunch of Emeralds jump him after school and he has to pick the glass out of his arm later, hissing from the pain, or when the Musclers sneak over from Harlem with zip guns and an eye for anything that moves, he wonders whether it's all worth it. But Riff and Tony are the closest things to a real brothers he's got, and much as sitting there and hearing Action bitch and Gee-Tar moan gets old, the Jets are, for better or for worse, his family. They have each others' backs like no one ever has or ever will. That's a promise made when you become a Jet, and over the years, Ice has learned to depend on—_trust_, even, when he'd thought he hadn't had any of it left—that. When you're a Jet, as every one of them is to the bone, you're a Jet for life.

Which is why Ice can't figure out why Tony's been kind of distracted lately. Tony is a dreamer, Ice knows, always has been and always will be. He wouldn't have started the Jets if he hadn't been. But Tony has always been everyone's go-to man, the one who can make you feel like a million dollars about being a Jet, and now that he's floating around with his head in the clouds, it's almost as if he doesn't buy into his own myth. As if Tony, as much as he is the Jet everyone looks up to, thinks there is something missing. Something else out there besides the Jets.

Is there? Ice doesn't know. He has never been the type to think big; he knows the world doesn't work that way, and he is perfectly content to be a Jet. As a Jet, Ice always knows what to do. It's simple. Uncomplicated. Just the way he likes his life.

At least it is when Riff isn't asking him to double-date with some girl who'll probably be as silly as Riff's redhead. But, as his friend and lieutenant reminds him, Jets have each others' backs in everything. If that includes a _date_, well…

It's just one night, Ice tells himself over and over again, wishing he'd never gotten himself into this mess. And, as Riff's sworn up and down, if he doesn't like her, he never has to see her again.

.

Velma doesn't like West Side. It's cramped and claustrophobic and the air is stale and every time she walks down a street, her skin crawls because who knows what could be around? Velma has never thought of herself as particularly uptight or prissy before, but something about this place sets her teeth on edge. She wants to go _home_.

"Just be patient," soothes her mother, voice gentle. "Look at your father. Look how happy he is doing his work here. Try a little bit longer."

So Velma does, because Dr. Andersen has always done his best to give his children everything they ever wanted. And she can tell that this is what he wants, more than anything. To make a difference, one sick boy or girl at a time. And if anyone deserves that, Velma knows, it's her father.

Not too long after, a girl with the reddest hair she's ever seen bumps into her on the street. "I'm sorry," says Velma automatically, even though it wasn't her fault.

The girl stares at her. "Who're you?"

Velma raises an eyebrow. "I live on this street."

"No, ya don't," she says adamantly. "_I_ live on this street, an' I've never seen ya before. I'd remember ya," she adds, her gaze sweeping up and down Velma's outfit with a touch of envy.

Velma shrugs. "I just moved here."

The girl absorbs this. "Oh. Where ya from?"

Velma shrugs again. "East Side," she says, trying to keep the hint of pride out of her voice.

The redhead snorts. "Why'd ya move to this dump, then?"

Velma sighs. "Search me."

The girl's full-lipped mouth quirks up into a smile. "Graziella Spanella," she announces. "You can call me Graz. C'mon, let's go introduce you to some-a the girls."

This girl is different, thinks Velma, and different, she supposes, is refreshing. So she gives a small, reserved smile back. "Velma Andersen."

"Okay, Vel," says Graziella with a smirk, "time to go have some fun."

Graziella introduces her to a side of life she's never known before, one that involves staying out late and dancing all night and for once really living her life without caring what other people think. It's dizzying, giddy, and Velma likes it. This is new. This is different. And different, Velma comes to realize, can be not just refreshing, but _good_.

Over the next month, Velma begins dropping the ends of words and picking up others she's never heard before. Slowly but surely, she starts blending in, starts being comfortable here on this side of the city. Velma meets Minnie (really adorable and sweet), Clarice (very pretty—she suspects they'll get along well), and Pauline (a complete and utterly low-class tramp). She also meets Riff, a fast-talking, funny guy whom Velma can tell Graziella is absolutely crazy about. And he's just as gone on her. Although less so when Graziella starts bringing Velma along on their dates because, as the redhead says in private, she wants to _see_ a few movies for a change.

When Graziella tells her that Riff has found some guy for her, Velma just rolls her eyes. It's about time, she thinks, she's figured Riff will end up doing this ever since Graziella started dragging her with them. Velma's only surprised it's taken him so _long_ to come up with a pal.

"I hope he's clean," she says with a sigh, and Graziella laughs.

"He's a Jet."

The way she says it is almost reverent, and Velma is immediately intrigued. She's heard the word before, and she knows that Riff is one, whatever that is, but she doesn't actually know what it means. "What are Jets?"

"The _greatest_," Graziella breathes dreamily. "The Jets are—well, you'll see."

A still-skeptical Velma shrugs. "Okay."

But then she meets him, and he's _interesting_. He is like no one she has ever met before. He is silent, capable, intense, and certainly not like the boys on East Side, running to their mothers at the first hint of trouble. Instead, observes Velma, intrigued, this boy runs straight _at_ trouble, doesn't let it scare him one bit.

_Does_ it scare him? she wonders as they walk the streets at midnight. After all, the life of a gang member is a pretty risky one. Plenty of opportunities to get hurt or beaten up or maybe even killed. He doesn't seem to show much emotion, though, this one. And this fascinates her.

His name is Ice. And when he kisses her at the close of the night, long and slow, Velma thinks for the first time that maybe—just maybe—West Side isn't quite so bad, after all.

.

Ice doesn't quite know how it's happened, but suddenly he's found himself with a girlfriend.

The Jets find this hilarious, of course.

"Ain't that sweet," Action snaps, rolling his eyes as the Jets dissect, for the fifth time that night, the betting pool they'd set up on when Ice would finally get a girl (Riff, Ice is nonplussed to find, wins by six months over Big Deal). "An' maybe you'll be a regular Mary Sunshine now you've got a broad to lay, huh? She's a looker, she any good in—"

Ice isn't sure how this happens, either, but the next thing he knows, he's got Action by the collar up against a wall and is glaring the hell out of him. "_Shut it_."

It's a testament to how shocked Action is that the hot-tempered boy doesn't even look mad. Instead, his half-smoked cigarette falls from his open mouth. "Jesus Christ, buddy-boy," he breathes in horror instead. "You're a _goner_."

"Damn straight," adds Riff extra-cheerfully. "Happens to us all."

And then the door to Doc's swings open and she walks in and suddenly Ice doesn't give a shit about what everyone thinks anymore. Not that they're ragging on him right now; their expressions range from boredom (A-Rab, Snowboy, Joyboy and Gee-Tar), avid interest (Tony, Riff, Action, Big Deal, and Tiger) to abject adoration (Mouthpiece). Which, Ice thinks sourly as he lets go of Action and redirects his glare at the tall, dopey Jet, it's obvious, he's going to have to deal with sooner rather than later.

But not now. Right now he's just thinking about his girl. And yeah, it's strange that he even has one when he's never even thought about it before, and yeah, he doesn't know how it happened, but at this point, Ice doesn't care. He's never felt so good in his whole life.

Velma smiles at him. "Hi."

And Ice can't help his answering grin as he hurries over to meet her. "Hi."

.

Ice, Velma finds out soon enough, doesn't talk much, sure, but it's a different kind of quiet than she's used to with boys. Their silences are comfortable, like they're speaking even when they're not. And even if he doesn't say a lot, he's good at listening. Which, Velma thinks, she of all people—sandwiched in the middle of four other siblings—appreciates very much.

They tell each other bits and pieces of the past, discovering each other slowly and methodically. The long summer nights say there is no need to hurry, that their future is forever. It's amazing, Velma thinks, over and over again, how very different it is when it's the right boy. Of this she's sure: this _is_ the right boy. He is everything that she dislikes about West Side—scuffed up, rough around the edges, and dangerous—but in spite of (or is it because of?) this, Velma is fascinated by him, just the same. She can't learn enough about who he is. So she asks him. And he tells her.

"Your real name's John?" she repeats one night, lips curving up into a smile. They're sitting on her fire escape, leaning into each other, and Velma is amazed by this latest piece of information. John. It's such an ordinary name for such an extraordinary boy that she has to double-check to make sure.

Ice just shrugs. "No one's called me that in forever 'cept my ma, but yeah."

"Well," she tells him in return, "mine's Vilhelmina."

A half-smile flickers onto his face. "That's a mouthful."

"Yeah," agrees Velma, dimpling. "So, see, it ain't just you big tough gang members who get to change their names."

Ice tilts his head and studies her for a moment. "But even Velma—or Vel—that don't sound like you."

Velma meets his pale blue gaze with her own. It's not the first time she's thought this, but she still can't understand how this boy understands her like he's known her all her life. "What do I sound like?" she asks curiously.

He shrugs. "Vee."

Velma thinks about this. Short, simple, like a whisper in one breath. Hers. And his.

He doesn't need to be told that she likes it; Velma has a feeling he knows already, anyway. Instead, she just catches his hand and smiles. "Well, Ice," she murmurs, tilting her head up to see the night sky, "it's gettin' late, so this is Vee, sayin' good night."

She feels, rather than sees, him smile before he leans over and kisses her. "Good night." And then his long limbs are up and moving and he is descending her fire escape and falling into the night.

Velma stays outside for a moment longer. She doesn't know what the future will bring, but looking up at the bright stars, she doesn't think it matters. All she has—all _they_ have—is now, and that, she thinks contentedly, is enough.

.

So we stood hand in hand, like two children, and there was peace in our hearts for all the dark things that surrounded us.

—Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, The Sign of the Four


	2. a piece of this world

Disclaimer: Lalala don't own lalala.

Note: And now we get into the real story, which, essentially, is Ice and Velma's lives during the time of _West Side Story_ and after. As it's a novelization of a film of a musical, I've made certain choices that I felt were for the benefit of this story in written form. It's nothing major, but if you notice something missing, it's most likely because this fic is from the point of view of Ice and/or Velma, and they don't always like to pay attention. Heh. If something really bothers you, though, feel free to let me know, and I'll gladly discuss it with you. :)

For: **HedgehogQuill **and **xXc0okieSsNcrEamXx**, who both left reviews that made me all sniffly about Tucker Smith. But most of all for** Megfly**, because in addition to her own wibble-inducing review, she's been so very, very helpful during the writing of this thing with feedback. Especially on turning song into fic, which she pulls off with flying colors in her _Titanic_ fic, _Fortune's Winds_, which is one of the best fics I've ever read and, along with **HedgehogQuill**'s _Now It Begins_, is what I consider a sort of sister-fic to mine. Please please please read it. It's on my favorites list. :)

Proper credit: The beginning of this chapter owes some inspiration to a few lines at the beginning of Irving Shulman's novelization, though no direct quotes are used.

Hope you enjoy!

—viennacantabile

* * *

fell the angels

two : a piece of this world

.

He lived here as an invalid lives within the space he has learned to inhabit.

—Sandor Marai, Embers

.

One minority looks sometimes as if it suffered acutely, the adolescents. They throw themselves about the city, now supersonic, now limp as snails, marvelously unaware of adults or children. Suddenly across their blank faces runs a flash of anguish, of huntedness, of brutal vindictiveness, of connivance — the pangs of reformatory inmates; a caged animal misery. They are known as punks and jailbait and everyone defers to them, everybody spoils them as people do to what they recognize as poetic. They are not expected to make any return.

—Edwin Denby

.

It's hot as hell in New York today and the Jets are itching for action.

All eleven of them are swaggering down the street, dangerously close to Shark territory, and though Riff hasn't said it, Ice knows it's because the Jet leader hopes they'll find easy pickings trying to poach on their own turf. It's the easiest way to keep the rank-and-file happy without picking up the girls, after all, and certain PRs need to know they can't just dance onto Jet territory whenever they feel like it.

But today, the Sharks aren't cooperating, and the Jets—one or two of them in particular—are getting restless.

"C'mon, when're we gonna do somethin'?" demands Action, pounding his fists in the air. "Are we Jets, or ain't we?"

"Cut it, Action," says Riff, wheeling around to give him an unamused stare. "We go lookin' for trouble long enough, trouble'll find us. An' _then_ you can beat the daylights outta it. Dig?" Not waiting for an answer, he resumes his strut, eyes darting around.

Action can't stop moving, and, thinks Ice with a sigh, can't shut his mouth, either. "Aww, Tony ain't comin', Riff!"

Riff actually stops this time. "I said _cut it_, Action," he barks, glaring at the shorter Jet, who meets Riff's eyes with his own dark, sullen gaze. "'Less ya want me to shut your mouth _for_ ya."

Action is the first to look away. Baby John giggles at this, and Action shoves the younger boy; he's found another outlet for his ever-present aggression. For the time being, anyway.

Riff glances at Ice; his lieutenant nods back, and skips to the rear, behind Mouthpiece and Tiger, to watch their backs. They're out looking for trouble, sure, but the last thing anybody wants is for it to sneak up on them and get them from behind. Neither Riff nor Ice likes to admit it, but the Sharks have been getting awfully pushy lately, and when it comes down to a rumble, as it always does, the Jets are going to need every man they've got.

"Hey, buddy-boys!"

Except that one.

Ice stares as that scrawny little tomboy—Anybodys—scurries past him and up to Riff, who groans. "Kid, can't ya just leave us alone?"

"Riff!" pants the girl, completely ignoring the Jet leader, "look, I saw Bernardo an' a buncha little PRs hangin' round the Park! Ya want I should run 'em off?"

A-Rab cackles. "I'd like to see ya try," he snorts, looking her up and down.

She shoots him a dirty look. "Buzz off."

"You buzz off," decides Riff, taking a cigarette from Tiger's ready stash and coolly lighting up. "I don't got time for your games today, little girl."

"But Riff—"

"Scram, kid."

Anybodys stands and glares at them all for a minute before she streaks off like a bullet. Riff takes a long, slow drag on his cigarette. Then he grins.

"Let's go beat some Sharks."

As one, the gang heads in the direction of Central Park.

.

There's no one there except a few couples necking, and Ice glances at Riff to see what he will do. On sweltering days like this when it's hard to keep the Jets—or maybe just Action—in line, the disappointment of no PRs to pound into the ground makes Riff's job even harder. The Jet leader shrugs.

"So they heard we was comin'," Riff says with just the right touch of easygoing ruefulness and scorn. "We'll find 'em later." He chuckles. "We always do."

Ice grins. Tough job or not, he thinks, Riff could talk his way out of anything. "Right, Daddy-O."

"Now, ah—let's go grab some Cokes, huh?" decides Riff. "It's hotter'n Pauline's skirt out here."

The Jets trade grins; there isn't one of them who doesn't know, personally, what he means. Except Ice, who winces. And Baby John, of course; the kid's terrified of girls. Ice swings around to see how he's taking the joke, but Baby John's usual spot right behind A-Rab is empty. Damn.

Ice taps Riff on the shoulder with a sigh. "Hey, Riff. We got an AWOL."

Riff stops. "Who're we missin'?"

"Baby John," Ice mutters. Of all the Jets to go off alone, it has to be Baby John, the one who can't take care of himself. Figures.

Riff swears. "Christ. A-Rab, where is he?"

"What, like I'm his keeper?" protests A-Rab defensively. "I don' know from nothin'!"

"I think I saw him split off way back when we was passin' that one lot with all the doors," volunteers Mouthpiece happily as the Jets chuckle at A-Rab's inadvertent admission. "Said somethin' about stickin' it to the Sharks in their own backyard."

Ice stares at him. "Why the hell didn't ya say somethin'?"

Mouthpiece shrugs, the oblivious grin on his face unchanged, and Ice exchanges a look with Riff. If the kid didn't have a punch like a heavyweight champion…

"Okay," sighs Riff. "Move out, buddy-boys. We gotta find him 'fore the PRs do."

Action scowls. "But don't we got better things—"

Riff silences him with an emphatic shake of the head. "Like it or not, little man, kid's a Jet, an' we ain't servin' him up on a silver platter to get eaten by some Shark. Now move out."

Shaking his head, Ice takes off. He's always wondered how Baby John ever got into the Jets—he's a walking 'kick me' sign, and they're always bailing him out of trouble. It's not that he doesn't _like_ the kid, but Baby John is one of the youngest fourteen year-olds he's ever met.

Was _he_ ever like that? Ice wonders as he moves through the alleys, eyes alert for any sign of Baby John's mop of fair hair. He sighs. Well, if he ever was, he can't remember, but Ice thinks probably not. Hell, he can't say any of the Jets were ever like Baby John. Even Mouthpiece, who's missing half the screws in his head, doesn't really need a leash on him like the kid. So why does Baby John?

Most of the Jets have pretty good reasons for being the troublemakers they are: Action's ma is too friendly, A-Rab's old man drinks too much, Riff…well, there's something there about an uncle being the reason he lives with Tony, but nobody really knows. Half of them come from messed-up homes and broken families, and it shows. Baby John, though, he's not quite sure about. All he knows about the kid's family is that he's only got his mom. No dad. Which, Ice thinks, narrowing his eyes, is probably better than having a mom and a—well, less-than-loving father. But in any case, it might explain a few things.

Ice sighs. It doesn't really matter _why_ Baby John is the way he is. All that really matters is that they find him and make sure he doesn't spend the rest of the day hanging upside-down, tied at the ankle to the top of a streetlight, like the last time they lost him. Or worse, thinks Ice grimly, as he picks up speed. The world's a pretty shitty place out there for a kid like Baby John on his own, with no friends and no family to watch his back. Ice shakes his head. Every single one of them knows it, and no one better than he.

.

He's just nearing the back of the playground when he hears it: "Jets! _Jets_!"

And within seconds, Ice is off and running, crashing through the gate and skidding over the pavement to the clump of Sharks clustered around a cowering lump that can only be Baby John. Ice doesn't hesitate—he knows his target and he goes straight for him: Bernardo.

Come on, you sonofabitch, he thinks furiously, yanking the red-shirted Shark leader away, pick on someone your own size—

Bernardo doesn't take this lying down; he's fast and slippery and his darting fists dance in and out, landing blows on Ice's chest, ribs, abdomen. But Ice isn't exactly about to give up either: he's got a good grip on the PR, and if he holds on long enough, Bernardo won't be able to do a thing.

So Ice, setting his jaw, keeps his arms locked as more and more Jets and Sharks dive into the fray, cursing and kicking and punching and spitting at each other as their hate spills over onto the playground. Ice can hardly tell who is who in the blur of action, but he knows every one of them is fighting just as hard as he is to take his opponent and smash him into the pavement. It's not about Baby John anymore; it's about the real deal: ownership of the streets, and the right to call themselves men.

But it's a question that will have to wait. Ice just barely hears a shrill whistle before Officer Krupke wades into the gangs, beating and bullying them apart. Ice, realizing what's up, figures that now is as good of a time as any to go retrieve Baby John. Shoving Bernardo away, he knocks his way into the middle of the melee, grabs the kid's wrists, and yanks him out of there.

"Break it up!" roars a voice Ice knows all too well. "Come on, punks, break it up!"

Ice, pulling the youngest Jet over to their side, grimaces. Schrank. Just who they need.

As the gangs reluctantly scatter apart, Ice dumps Baby John on the seesaw and tilts the kid's head so he can see the damage. Jesus, Ice thinks, staring at the livid splotch of red on Baby John's ear, how is this kid going to stay alive without us? Then Tiger leans in like a mother hen, and Ice decides to leave him to take care of Baby John. Ice, as lieutenant, has places to be and leaders to back up.

A baleful Schrank eyes the Jets with dislike. "How many times have I told you kids to cut this stuff out?"

"Why, if it ain't Lieutenant Schrank!" marvels Riff innocently as Ice reaches his usual spot to the right of the Jet leader.

"Top-a the day, Lieutenant Schrank!" Ice choruses along with the other Jets, rolling his eyes.

"_And_ Officer Krupke!" adds Bernardo, mockingly echoing Riff's pleased-as-punch tone. At times like these, when adults intrude on their world, every gang on West Side sticks by an unspoken temporary truce, because no matter what arguments or alliances they have with each other, they all know who the bigger enemy is: the police officers and the judges and the social workers who think they understand them. Here's news, thinks Ice, you don't understand shit.

The other Sharks, too, follow suit. "Top of the day, Officer Krupke!"

The big-bellied man is not amused and smacks his nightstick against his palm. "I'll give ya the top-a the _head_!"

"Hey, you!" snarls Schrank, pointing at A-Rab and Snowboy, who are hanging from the fence. "Get down!"

"But we're havin' such fun!" protests A-Rab.

"We enjoy the playground!" Snowboy chimes in cheerily.

"Ah, see, it keeps us deprived children offa the foul city streets," Riff explains very seriously. Ice snorts. He's awfully glad Riff is leader; smartass comments like those are half of what make or break a gang, and Riff swings with the best in that department. Straight-man Ice, on the other hand, is something of a gang joke for his incredible inability to flick the cops off. Lucky for him there are Jets like Riff and Snowboy around, Ice thinks, amused, so he almost never has to.

Schrank's eyes are busy roving around the Jets; meanwhile, Krupke doesn't buy this, either. "Shaddup."

A-Rab, who by now has hopped down and trotted over, puts his hands out. "An' born like we was on the hot pavement!"

He's not any more successful with Krupke than Riff; the big man just turns threateningly to him. "You wanna get your skull broke?"

"Hey, Baby John, c'mere!" Schrank suddenly barks, his gaze having landed on the one Jet he might have a chance at breaking. Ice bites back a groan as a helpless Baby John glances at Tiger and gets up. "C'mere!"

The second Baby John takes two steps forward, Schrank grabs him and shoves him in front of the Sharks. "Now which one-a these Puerto Ricans bloodied ya?"

Ice stares at Baby John's back, waiting to see if the kid will give or not. He's a Jet, sure, but he's also little and scared and mostly in the Jets because if he doesn't get with a gang, some gang is going to get _him_. He's no foolhardy Action ready to take on the world, that's for sure.

But Riff doesn't give Baby John the chance; the Jet leader moves forward, clearing his throat. "Uh, sir? We, ah—suspicion that the, ah—job was done by a _cop_."

Trading snickers and smirks, the Jets eagerly chime in:

"Two cops!"

"At the very least!"

"Impossible," scoffs Krupke. Schrank, though, doesn't say anything, and Ice, watching him, knows why: sure, Riff is just playing for time, but everyone on West Side knows it's more than possible that a cop might go above and beyond the call of duty to pick on some poor sucker like Baby John. Even probable.

"In America, _nothing_ is impossible," says Bernardo sardonically.

"All right, wise guys," Schrank growls at the Shark. "Now, you listen to me." He wheels around to glare at both Jets and Sharks. "All of ya! You hoodlums don't own these streets. An' l've had all the roughhousin' l'm gonna put up with around here. You wanna kill each other? Kill each other! But you ain't gonna do it on _my beat_. Are there any questions?"

"Yes, sir," Bernardo says immediately, his dark eyes glittering. "Would you mind translating that into Spanish?"

Bernardo, Ice has to admit as he and the other Jets snicker, is a real down guy. Tough. Not scared of the cops at all. A worthwhile opponent, even if he is a Shark. There's always that qualifier on the end, though: even if he's a Shark. Because if there's one thing Ice knows, it's that Jets and Sharks don't mix, and never will.

Ice can't see Schrank's face, but he's pretty sure he knows what it's looking like right now. "Get your…_friends_…outta here, Bernardo," he snarls, "and _stay_ out." The detective deliberately turns away from them, shifts so that he's not even looking at them. The message, it seems, is that they're not even worth that much effort. "_Please._"

As the burly man speaks, Bernardo's face changes, retreats from its proud, hard smile to something that looks very much like defeat. This doesn't last long, though; the Shark takes a deep breath and visibly collects himself. "Okay, Sharks," he says, dark gaze never leaving Schrank, "_vámonos_."

As the Sharks saunter out of the playground, some of the tension in the air visibly evaporates. Ice watches them go, a grin on his face. It's not like he likes Schrank any better than he likes the Sharks—worse, actually, if it comes to that—but there's just something about watching a rival gang get its ass handed on a platter to them that makes his day a little brighter.

"Boy, oh, boy," Schrank mutters darkly, "as if this neighborhood wasn't crummy enough."

But Schrank's kidding himself if he thinks that just because he kicked out a bunch of PRs, they're suddenly all buddy-buddy. The Jets can look after themselves just fine, thank you very much, and Riff, proving this, calls them into a huddle and swings his arms around Ice and A-Rab.

"_Boy, oh, boy_," he says with a mocking smirk, "I ain't never seen a cop do a good deed like that before. Check an' see, Mouthpiece, is the sky fallin'?"

Mouthpiece tips his face up, then back down, and blinks. "Gee, I don't think so, Riff."

"Now, look, fellas," Schrank goes on, louder, clearly trying for a friendly sort of tone that doesn't actually work because no one is stupid enough to fall for it, "fellas? Look, let's be reasonable."

Along with a few other Jets, Ice turns around to glance skeptically at Schrank, if only because he feels it's better to keep the cop where he can see him. He's willing to bet all the money he doesn't have that their definitions of 'reasonable' don't exactly mesh.

"lf l don't get a little law and order around here, l get busted down to a traffic corner." The cop chuckles. "An' your friend don't like traffic corners. So that means you're gonna start makin' nice with the P.R.s from now on."

By now, even Schrank can tell that even though the Jets are looking at him, nobody is listening. Clearly frustrated, he grabs A-Rab's shoulder and jerks him around. A-Rab, cigarette in hand, just stares at him. "l said _nice_, get it? 'Cause if you don't—an' l catch any of you doin' any more brawlin' in my territory—l'm gonna personally beat the living crud out of every one-a ya an' see that you go to the can an' rot there!"

No one says a word. After all, thinks Ice grimly, it's not like they haven't heard it all before. Each and every one of them.

Schrank eyes them all in silence for a minute, eyes lingering last on Ice, before sneering. "Say good-bye to the nice boys, Krupke."

"Goodbye, boys," chuckles Krupke as he follows his partner-in-crime back to the squad car.

"_Goodbye, boys_," mutters Snowboy, imitating Krupke's not-too-bright voice to a T.

"Jail. Gee," murmurs a fearful Baby John.

Action flings his cigarette to the cement and springs up from his seat on the seesaw. "_You hoodlums don't own the streets." _This one sentence says everything they hate about Schrank and everyone like him: they think they know the streets because they patrol them, and maybe they do, but what they don't understand is everything the Jets know, all too well, about what the graffittied dead-ends and squalid apartments and sky-high roofs hide in their shadows. There is more to West Side than the cops, in their cute little squad cars, can see in the few hours they are here every day. And if the Jets, who live their lives in the alleys and streets of this place, don't own this piece of the world, then who does? If they don't belong here, then where? The Jets' resentment is simmering, boiling just underneath the surface, and as always, Action is the one who draws it out and fans the flame, returning every grievance with one of his own.

"Go play in the park," parrots Snowboy.

"Keep offa the grass."

"Get outta the house," Ice spits tightly, following Riff's slow, measured steps forward.

"Keep off the block."

A-rab jumps up. "Get outta _here_!"

"_Keep off the world_!" snaps Action. "A gang that don't own the street is _nothin'_!"

"That's it—"

"Guys,_ we do own it!_" barks Riff around his cigarette. He stands restlessly with his fists clenched for a moment, takes his cigarette out and puffs a fast, disgruntled breath of smoke out before whipping around. "Come on, Jets, round out!"

As Ice and the Jets follow him over the seesaws and to the alley behind the playground, a small shadow darts in front of them to hover at Riff's side. And Ice rolls his eyes. How has he not noticed their tagalong before now?

Riff doesn't break stride. "Not you, Anybodys. Beat it."

"Aww, Riff, you gotta let me in the gang," pleads the tomboy, fairly dancing to keep up with the Jet leader. "Didn't you just see me? l was _smash_, l'm a _killer_, l wanna _fight_!"

A-Rab, looking Anybodys's stick-straight body up and down, cackles. "How else she gonna get a guy to touch her?"

Anybodys immediately flings herself at him and hammers on his chest. "You dirty _rat_!"

Ice can't help but chuckle along with the rest of the gang, including A-Rab himself. Only Anybodys doesn't seem to think this is funny at all.

"The road, little girl, the road!" orders Riff.

Ice agrees. The Jets are having a little too much fun teasing her, and they've got better things to do, so he rolls his eyes and helps to shove her away. "Beat it."

She doesn't retreat willingly, hocking a wad of spit at them, but when the tomboy's gone, the Jets settle down in the alley, Riff at their center.

"Okay, now listen," says Riff, dark eyes intense and alive in his tanned face as Tiger, next to Ice, hands the leader another cigarette. "We fought hard for this turf, and we ain't just gonna give it up. The Emeralds claimed it—we shut 'em out. The Hawks, they tried to take it away, an' we knocked 'em down the cellar!"

"Yeah, but these P.R.s are different!" puts in an anxious Snowboy.

"They multiply—"

Ice slices the air with his hand. "They keep _comin'_."

The Jets chime in faster and faster; their dislike of the Sharks is just as present, if not as long-lived, as their hatred of the adults of their world, because while there is a clear, defined line between kid and adult turf, the Sharks are crowding in and taking their food and air and invading Jet territory just like the pests they are. And it's not as if they have any to spare.

"Help! l'm drowning in tamale!" clowns Snowboy, clutching at his throat, but nobody laughs, because it might as well be true.

"Hey—an' you heard what Lieutenant Schrank said," Riff says disgustedly, waving his cigarette around for emphasis. "We gotta make _nice_ with them Puerto Ricans, or else. We gotta let 'em move in, right under our noses, an' take it all away from us, or _else_!"

At this the Jets erupt in fury. Ice, just as irate as the rest of them, clenches his fist and jaw as he turns to glare at his leader. "_No!_"

Riff's eyes flash. All pretense of joking is gone now, and Ice realizes for the first time that Riff—carefree, never-take-anything-serious Riff—is really angry now. "You're _damn right_ no!" He eyes them all cagily. "So what're we gonna do, huh, buddy boys? I'll tell ya what we're gonna do." Riff gets up, moves forward. The Jets follow. "We're gonna speed _fast_—we're gonna move like _lightnin'_! An' we're gonna clean them Sharks up _once an' for all_, so they ain't _never_ gonna set foot on our turf _again_!"

The Jets hang there, waiting, before Riff turns around, a hint of a smile lurking around his mouth, and gives them what they've all been waiting for. "And we're gonna do it in one, all-out fight."

Action pumps his fists, excited. "A rumble! Chung-chung!"

"Now cool it, Action-boy," cautions Riff, calm once more and putting his hand on the hothead's shoulder. "The Sharks want a piece-a this world, too! And they're real down boys." Giving them a challenging stare, Riff goes on: "They might ask for, ah—blades—zip guns—"

Ice's eyes widen just a bit. He isn't scared, and he knows that Riff is just trying to test them, but he also knows things could get ugly real fast if they do bring in zip guns and anything more than maybe rocks or belts. He's not the only one with reservations, either.

"Zip guns?" repeated Baby John with a shudder. He gives a weak chuckle. "Gee."

"Well, I ain't finalizin' an' sayin' they will, Baby John," Riff backtracks just a bit, clapping his hand on the kid's shoulder, and looking round at all of them again, "I'm just sayin' that they might! An' _we gotta be prepared_. Now," he continues quickly, restlessly snapping his fingers, "what's your mood, Jets?"

Ice keeps silent, cupping his fist with his other hand as he works out how they can fight, and how they can win. Eleven Sharks. Eleven Jets. Twelve, if you go out on a limb and count Tony, but that's a stretch; Tony hasn't been around for a month and if you're going to count him on your side, Ice thinks reluctantly, then you might as well count your mom, too, for all the help you're going to get. So with even numbers, there are a lot of options here. Only one thing is for sure: not one of them includes backing down.

Action, as always, is the first to make his opinion known: "I say go, go!"

A-Rab is quick to join in. "I say mix!"

"I say sock 'em!" agrees Tiger.

"Tear 'em!" spits Joyboy.

"Yeah!" Ice cuts in quickly, fiercely, because none of them seems to get that whatever happens, they have to _win_ this fight, and he isn't so sure any of them are ready for what that might mean. Ice is as ready to take the Sharks down as any of the Jets, but that's no good if they just get beat for lack of planning. He shoots Joyboy a steady, warning look. "But if they say blades or guns?"

Baby John shrugs weakly. "I say let's just forget the whole thing!"

As Action sputters at the courage of their resident Captain Marvel, Ice focuses on their leader, who, after all, will be the one to decide. "What do you say, Riff?"

Riff narrows his eyes. "I say this turf is small," he declares, moving forward, "but it's all we got, huh?" He shrugs as the Jets mutter their agreement. "An' I wanna hold it like we always held it—with _skin_!" Riff holds his fist up for emphasis. Then his eyes darken. "But if they say blades, I say blades. If they say guns? _I say guns_. I say I want the Jets to be the number one—to _sail_! To hold the sky!"

Ice, listening, can't stop the grin from coming onto his face, can't help but catch the exhilaration in Riff's voice as their fearless leader thrusts his arms into the air—he's that good, that convincing. Neither can the Jets.

"Then rev us up!" bursts A-Rab. "Voom va-voom!"

The Jets explode in hard-edged enthusiasm. This adrenaline rush, this certainty that there is nothing in the world they can't do, is the root of it all, why they are all here, why they are all following Riff. It's more than this street, it's more than them: if they're Jets, then they have the whole world at their feet. And every single one of them—from beanpole Mouthpiece to tagalong Baby John—knows it.

Riff's excited face mirrors theirs. "Okay, cats, we rumble!" he declares, moving over to the bench. Jumping on top of it, he gestures with his cigarette for emphasis. "Now, protocality calls for a war-council between us an' the Sharks, to set the whole thing up. So, I will personally give the bad news to Bernardo."

"Hey, ya gotta take a lieutenant with ya," Snowboy pipes up through the Jets' chuckles.

"That's me," Action declares, and Ice has to bite back a snort. He doesn't even want to think about how fast Action would get the Jets killed if he were in charge. Besides—

"That's _Tony_," corrects Riff, and Ice nods. Ice is the lieutenant right now, yeah, but he's pretty sure he's just a fill-in until the real leader gets his head back on straight. And even if Tony hasn't been around in awhile, he's still the guy you'd want backing you up for something like this. The only problem is getting him to show. But, Ice thinks, if Riff can do it, then…

Action clearly doesn't agree. "Who needs Tony?"

"_We_ need Tony," Riff tells him, rolling his eyes. "He's got a rep that's bigger'n the whole West Side!"

But Action isn't ready to give up without a fight. "He don't _belong_ no more!"

"Now, cut it, Action!" snaps Riff sternly. "Me an' Tony _started_ the Jets!"

"So where is he?" demands Action, turning his scornful gaze to the rest of them to back him up. "How come he takes a lousy stinkin' _job_?"

Snowboy chuckles. "Youth board corrupted him!"

"Yeah, temporary sickness!" Riff assures them. "Wait an' see."

Riff, Ice decides, is right. They'll need every advantage they can get against the Sharks, and if memory serves, Tony will definitely be that. "Man, remember them fists the day we clobbered the Emeralds!"

"Well, he saved my ever-lovin' neck!" Baby John tentatively puts in. Ice turns, gives him a nod. That was Tony, back in the old days—a guy you could really count on. And if Riff could get that Tony to show, they'd beat the Sharks easy.

"Sure; he'll do it again, too!" grins Riff. "He always came through for us, an' he always will! He's a Jet through an' through, buddy-boys, an' _you know_ that when you're a Jet, there ain't no takin' it back—you _stay_ a Jet!"

Tiger holds up his lighter. "From your first cigarette—"

"To your last dyin' day!" agrees a grinning Big Deal.

"Well, gee," pipes up Baby John bravely, "that's what I love about the Jets. You ain't never alone; it's like havin' a real _family_."

"Yeah, an' when a buddy's gettin' whaled on by a buncha PRs, y'know we'll always come help him out," smirks A-Rab, clapping his beet-red best friend on the shoulder.

"So have a little faith, huh, buddy-boys?" urges Riff confidently. "I said it before; I'll say it again—when you're a Jet, you _stay_ a Jet."

Ice has to smile. That's the thing about Riff—he can talk like one of those TV bigshots and make you believe everything he has to say. Mostly because you know he believes it, too.

"Now, I know Tony like I know me," Riff goes on, moving quickly back through the alley, "an' I guarantee you can count him in!"

"In, out, let's get crackin'!" grumbles Action, defeated for the moment, as they follow Riff.

"Where ya gonna find Bernardo?" Mouthpiece wants to know.

"It ain't safe to go into PR territory!" adds Baby John tremulously.

Riff just waves them off. "He'll be at the dance tonight, at the gym."

The dance. Right, Ice remembers suddenly. He holds back a frown. If Riff makes a splash at the dance tonight, Ice knows a certain someone who is not going to be very happy. But Riff knows what he's doing, he quickly reminds himself. And besides, Graziella will be there, too, to keep the Jet leader busy, so probably nothing big will happen at all.

"Yeah, but the gym's neutral territory!" A-Rab reminds him.

Riff stops and turns around, eyes innocent. "A-Rab, I'm gonna make nice with him—I'm _only_ gonna _challenge_ him!"

Ice, reassured, grins. There it is again—Riff always has an answer for everything, and that is exactly the kind of leader they need. "Great, Daddy-O!"

Riff grins back and puts his hand on Ice's shoulder. "So listen: everybody dress up sweet an' sharp. Meet Tony an' me at the dance tonight after ten." He turns to go, but throws one last parting shot at them. "An' _walk tall_!"

"We always walk tall!" A-Rab shouts back, kicking the air.

"We're Jets!" pipes up Baby John.

"The greatest!" fires Joyboy.

Snowboy leaps up onto a bench and flexes his well-muscled arms. "Solid gold-medal heavyweights!" he adds, striking a wrestling pose.

"The top cats in town, the swingin'est things!" Gee-Tar warbles, playing a riff on an imaginary guitar before Action, rolling his eyes, throws a rock at him and he has to dodge.

"Jets go straight from little boys to kings-a the streets," Ice agrees, with a rueful glance at Baby John. They're all so jazzed up with anticipation for what is going to happen tonight that everything is sharper, every sense is on edge. If someone came at them now, thinks Ice, looking around at their united front, he wouldn't have a chance. He snaps his fingers restlessly and motions the Jets across the playground. "C'mon, let's go."

They make their way to the edge of the playground and to the gate, the air electric and crackling around them. There's some teenaged yuppie there, and even though he is nowhere near blocking their way, the Jets stop.

"Step aside, little man," snarls Action.

The kid, though skinny, is hardly little compared to Action. But Action's got a whole crew of his own backing him up, and this makes all the difference in the world. Without a word, the boy scurries away.

A scornful A-Rab snorts. "Look at him run. Lousy chicken."

"Yeah, well," Ice says as they pass through the gates of the playground and into the streets, "he knows the deal: someone gets in our way, someone don't feel so well. We're Jets. That's the way it is."

Big Deal grins. "Wouldn't have it any other way, huh, buddy-boys?"

"An' if those PRs don't get in line," chimes in an enthusiastic Baby John, "we'll beat 'em like we beat every other b—buggin' gang on the buggin' street!"

Ice has to snort. The kid can't even say the damn F-word, he thinks, but he sure talks like he's got balls. Maybe _that_'s why Tony and Riff let the kid in. That kind of foolhardy bravado is exactly the kind of thing that appeals to his friends, because if you can't talk like you're the best, you sure as hell aren't going to _be_ the best.

Action, who's clearly thinking along the same lines, shoves him. "You? Yeah, you an' what army, Baby John?"

Baby John grins as he recovers his footing. "The Jets. The _greatest_! Right?"

A chorus of laughter is heard as the Jets turn to look at a red-faced Action. "He got ya there!" chortles Mouthpiece happily.

After a pause, Action shakes his head, but even he can't stifle a chuckle. "Right, kid," he says, cuffing him on the shoulder as they continue their way down the street, "right. The greatest."

And come tonight, or whenever it is they finally clean out the Sharks, thinks Ice, squinting his eyes against the brightness of the afternoon sun, they'll prove it.

.

"So what's the deal?" asks Ice, glancing at Riff. It's somewhere between seven and eight o'clock and he and Riff are making their way up to Graziella's to pick the girls up for the big show tonight. A miserable-looking Baby John is trailing behind them, audibly muttering instructions to himself about not messing up his date with Minnie. "Tony comin'?"

Riff nods firmly. "Yeah. Caught him at Doc's. He'll be there."

Ice gives him a sidelong look. "Ya sure?"

"Yeah, yeah," Riff waves him off irritably. They walk in silence up the stairs of the building before he sighs. "Jesus, I don' know what's wrong with the kid nowadays. He's showin', yeah, but I hadda bring out the big guns. I never used to have to ask him for _nothin_', y'know that?"

"Yeah," nods Ice. "I remember." And it's true. Tony and Riff used to be like peanut butter and jelly—you couldn't have one without the other if you tried. Not that anyone ever did.

"Kept talkin' about waitin' on somethin' big," grumbles Riff as they reach Graziella's door, "an' I told him, what's bigger'n bein' a Jet? _Nothin'_."

Behind them, Baby John, having completely missed the conversation, is busy hyperventilating as Ice reaches out and punches the doorbell. "Nothin'," he agrees.

And then the door opens and an absolute dream walks out.

"Graz is almost ready an' Minnie'll be out in a sec," she tells Riff and Baby John, before turning to Ice and taking his hand with a smile. "Hi, honey."

There are a lot of things Ice likes about his girlfriend. Velma can really cook, for one thing; she bakes the best cake he's ever tasted. His mother thinks she's a keeper, too, and even though Ice would never admit it, her opinion matters. A lot. But, Ice thinks, the thing that he _really_ likes about Velma is that, for a dame, she doesn't ask too many questions. Graziella, now, there's a broad that'd talk your ear off. Loud. He doesn't know how Riff stands it.

Right now, though, Ice isn't thinking about any of that. Even the earlier fight at the playground has been blown clear out of his mind. He's forgotten about the Sharks, and the war council, and the rumble that is a guarantee because right now, Ice is drinking in the sight of his girlfriend in a pale blue dress that leaves her shoulders bare and traces every curve, and he is thinking, for the millionth time, that Velma is probably the prettiest girl he's ever seen. "Damn," he says with an appreciative smile, because he knows that girls like to be complimented, and because it is completely true, "ya look good, Vee."

Velma grins up at him and winds her arms around his neck. "All for you, Daddy-O," she murmurs, and Ice's eyes are already hazing when she kisses him, long and slow. He has no clue how it happens, but as always, he loses track of time and space when he's with her, and it's only when he hears Riff's impressed whistle and Baby John's embarrassed humming that he comes back down to earth as Velma pulls back with a giggle. Ice's arm goes automatically around her waist; he doesn't want to let go.

Maybe nothing's more important than being a Jet, a dazed Ice reflects contentedly, but he's pretty damn sure he knows something that could give it a hell of a run for its money.


	3. dusk and summer

Disclaimer: I own some family members, but that would be it.

Note: It's been a not so fun week, filled with finals and term papers and general unpleasantness, but the upshot is that now I am done with spring semester. And, since I'm studying abroad in the UK for my final semester in the fall, I'm now done with classes/finals/papers at my university forever, whee! Which, of course, means that I will have much more time to write and finish this fic this summer. Theoretically. :) In any case, this chapter (which is much shorter than the first two; enjoy it while it lasts, heh) introduces a new character or two, and if you have any questions at all, whether it's about characters, plot, or even if you just want to ask why I did something stupid, as always, feel free to let me know.

For: The four amazing people who were so kind as to review the last chapter and make me really happy. Especially **Mumsykat**, since as anyone who writes for this fandom knows, it's very rare to get reviews from articulate new people. :) And also, props to **HedgehogQuill**, who just owned an AP test today. :)

Hope you enjoy!

—viennacantabile

* * *

fell the angels

three : dusk and summer

.

We looked into the darkness of futurity as a child gazes after a rocket up in the cloudy sky, full of wondering expectation of the rattle, the discharge, and the brilliant shower of sparks and light.

—Elizabeth Gaskell, Cranford

.

"_Vel!_ Have ya seen my shoes?"

Velma, putting the finishing touches on her makeup over by the mirror after a full hour of primping, shifts to glance at the closet where her lingerie-clad best friend is rummaging through the tumble of brightly colored heels on the floor. "Which ones, Graz?"

The redhead turns around, face flushed. "You know, the ones I'm wearin' to the dance tonight. They match my dress."

Velma blinks. "Which dress're ya wearin' again?"

Graziella smirks at her, heart-shaped face framed by the enormous curlers in her hair. "The orange. You know the one. Real tight an' slinky; has a slit up to _here_." She giggles knowingly and indicates a spot midway up her right thigh. "Just so I can dance, a-course, but Riff'll go _nuts_."

Velma smiles. "Oh, yeah. You put 'em in a box on top-a the shelf last week, remember? So you could find 'em."

Graziella considers this, then gets on her tiptoes to reach onto the closet shelf and bring down a cardboard box. Opening it, she plucks out a violently orange heel. "Huh," she says, experimentally putting it on her foot with a smirk. "Well, whaddaya know. Guess it's good I keep ya around, after all."

Dimpling, Velma turns back to the mirror and carefully fluffs her hair. It certainly isn't the first dance she's gone to, but all the same, Velma is just as excited as if it were. Whirling around a dance floor with your friends and the boy you're crazy about is a fix that never gets old, and tonight, she plans to enjoy herself very, very much.

"What're ya wearin', anyway?" asks Graziella. The shoes are now perched on top of her bed while she unrolls her dance tights over her legs. "The yellow?"

Velma shakes her head, adjusting her corselette a bit. "No, the pale blue one with all the ruffles."

Graziella stops and glances slyly at her. "Ice really likes that one, don't he?"

Velma giggles. Ice likes just about anything on—or off—her, but he's definitely partial to her in blue. "Maybe."

"He comin' over later?" the redhead asks, turning back to her tights.

"Last time I checked," Velma confirms, smiling at herself in the mirror. "Riff?"

Graziella finishes pulling her tights up and over her body and stretches, a lazy smirk on her face. "He'd better, if he wants to get a chance at fu—"

"Hi, girls!" pipes up Minnie, dancing in from the bathroom outfitted in a ballerina-like muted orange dress and pearls. "This is my dress," she adds unnecessarily, swishing her full skirt.

"Don't you look just _precious_," Graziella coos. "Aww, Minnie, I can't believe it's your first real dance with Baby John already!"

"Oh, thank you, Graziella," beams Minnie. "Me, neither!"

Velma smiles. "You do look real pretty, Minnie."

"But are you _sure_ it's not too—well, _provocative_?" Minnie asks, pivoting anxiously in front of the full-length mirror fixed onto the back of the bedroom door. She lowers her voice and fearfully gestures to the ribbon ties topping her slender, almost-bare shoulders. "I'm wearing a _strapless bra_!"

Velma hides her amusement. "Minnie," she says with a very serious face, "I don't think _anyone'd_ ever think you were bein' provocative."

"Anythin' but," laughs Graziella as she plops down at her vanity and begins sorting through the mess of makeup there. "I mean, ya still got all your crinolines on, right? I think it works out."

Minnie blushes. "Oh—well, yes, there is that. But—" She pauses, clearly struck by a new worry. "Johnny won't think they're childish, will he?"

"Trust me," Velma reassures her with complete honesty. "Baby John won't be thinkin' anythin' like that when he sees ya, Minnie." She smiles slightly. "Anyway, he'll just be lookin' at your pretty face. Right, Graz?"

The redhead jerks up from the vanity mirror, where she's been outlining her lips with bright red lipstick. "What? Oh, yeah, sure—Minnie, ya look like a real doll, y'know." Returning to the mirror, she purses her lips critically. "Vel, d'ya think it's too much?"

Velma rolls her eyes. "Well, if ya want everyone to know Riff's your guy after ya kiss him, then no, it ain't."

Graziella beams. "_Perfect_!" Jumping up, she turns to the youngest girl. "Now, Minnie, just sit down in front-a the mirror, an' we'll do somethin' with your face."

A self-conscious Minnie touches her cheek. "But not _too_ much, right?"

"A-course not!" Graziella laughs. "Don'tcha trust me, Minnie?"

"Well, of course I do," Minnie nods helplessly. She shoots Velma a pleading look. "I'm just not too sure that, well…"

Velma's lips twitch. "Say, Graz," she suggests, "it's already almost seven. Maybe ya oughta get started on brushin' out your hair."

Graziella's eyes widen as her hands fly to her head. "Oh, _shi_—I mean, darn!" she hastily corrects herself after a panicked glance at Minnie. "How'd it get so late?"

Minnie beams. "Oh, time flies when you're having fun, Graziella."

"Sure does," Graziella agrees fervently, running toward the bathroom. "Vel, can ya take care-a Minnie?" she calls over her shoulder, already reaching for a roller.

Velma smiles at Minnie. "Sure, Graz." She steers the younger girl over to the vanity, where Minnie sits obligingly. "You've got real nice skin already, so I'm thinkin' maybe just some lipstick. A _little_ eyeshadow wouldn't hurt," Velma adds. "That okay, Minnie?"

"I suppose so," agrees a trusting Minnie. "As long as you think Daddy wouldn't mind."

Velma winces. Minnie Goddard's father is a police officer who doesn't approve at all of his daughter's choice in male friends, and she has a hard time believing that a father who prefers his little girl in outdated crinolines and a neckline up to her throat will be all right with even a hint of color on her face. But, supposes Velma, examining Minnie's bare face, it _is_ a dance, after all, and what's the point of being young if you don't take any chances? Besides, she thinks, picking up a tube of rose-colored lipstick, Minnie and Baby John are the last teenagers she knows who would get up to any trouble. And a little bit of makeup isn't going to change that.

"You'll look even prettier," Velma agrees vaguely instead, quickly swiping the lipstick over Minnie's lips with a practiced hand. "Press your lips together and close your eyes," she instructs, picking up an eyeshadow palette as the younger girl obeys. "Subtle," Velma murmurs to herself, scanning the colors, "subtle—oh, this one," she decides. As she takes a brush and begins applying the pale, moon-colored powder, Minnie fidgets.

"Velma," she says thoughtfully, "where did you learn to do all of this?"

Velma carefully inspects Minnie's eyelids. "What, makeup?"

"Yes," says Minnie, "and doing your hair, and picking out clothes, and—all of it, really." She can't see the smile that passes over Velma's face.

"Well, I have two older sisters," the blonde points out. "One of 'em wasn't really into that kinda thing, but Katrina didn't mind teachin' me everything."

"And your father didn't mind?" Minnie asks wonderingly.

Velma, dusting a little more eyeshadow on, giggles. "By the time he got around to me, he knew it was pretty much useless to try an' stop me bein' a girl. Same thing happened when I started datin' boys. He just told me to be careful."

Minnie releases a long, drawn-out sigh. "I love Ricky, and I'm very proud of him, but I wish I had sisters."

Velma smiles. "Well," she says, "that's what we're for, Minnie. Ricky's in the Navy, right?"

"Right," Minnie confirms, her lips curving up into a smile that Velma can tell reaches all the way to her eyes, even though they're closed. "In the South Pacific. Oh," she chirps, "is Peter coming tonight?"

Velma pauses at the mention of her brother. Minnie and Peter are in the same class at school, along with A-Rab, Anybodys, and Baby John, but Peter is a soccer player and hangs out with a different group of friends entirely, like Big Deal's brother Rudi, so it feels a little odd hearing Minnie ask about him. "I think so, yeah. He's got a date—Claire, I think, or Claudia—"

"Clarissa Clausen," Minnie cheerfully fills in. "She's a very nice girl, and very friendly to all the boys in our class."

Then again, Velma thinks with a smile, Minnie is the kind of girl who knows and likes everyone, including the 'friendly' girls. Inspecting Minnie's eyelids, she bites back a giggle. To Minnie, 'friendly' just means friendly, plain and simple. Even if Velma is pretty sure everyone else would call it something more. "I'm sure she is."

"I hope they have a nice time," reflects Minnie comfortably. "I hope we all do."

Velma, after one last look, sets the makeup brush back onto the vanity, and the brunette opens her eyes. "Me, too, Minnie," she says with a smile, and gestures to the mirror. "Take a look."

Minnie swivels around and gasps. "Oh—Velma—you're sure it's not too much?"

Velma giggles. "We can always ask Graz."

"Ya called, girls?" purrs Graziella, leaning provocatively against the door-frame, still clad only in her lingerie. The Jet leader's girl sways over, red-orange hair now perfectly curled and arranged just-so over her shoulders.

Minnie, turning her head, gasps. "Oh, Graziella, your hair looks _wonderful_!"

"It does," agrees Velma approvingly. "Graz, how's Minnie look?"

Graziella's meticulously-plucked eyebrows snap together as she scrutinizes the brunette. "Well…"

Minnie's eyes widen in anxiety. "Oh, I knew it, it's too—"

"I can barely tell she's wearin' any!" laments Graziella loudly. "Where's her _face_?"

"See, Minnie?" asks Velma, unable to resist an amused grin. "It ain't too much."

Minnie looks only half-convinced. "But—"

"You look beautiful," Velma says firmly. Moving over to the bed, she picks up the garment bag that holds her dress and matching shoes and heads toward the vacated bathroom. "Be right back."

Once she's closed the door, Velma opens the bag and tugs on first her dance tights, tucking the waistband under her corselette, then her green bloomers. Then she pulls her dress from the bag and smiles. Velma has had more than a few dresses over the years, but this is hands-down one of her favorites. Unzipping the back, she steps into the ripples of pale blue fabric and works it up over her undergarments and into its proper place. And Velma, stepping into her shoes and smoothing the layers over her body, smiles at her reflection. She's been feeling like something good—she doesn't know what—is going to happen all week. She doesn't know what, and she doesn't know when, but maybe it will be tonight.

By the time she exits Graziella's bathroom, her best friend is dressed and fussing over her jewelry. Velma turns the open back of her dress to Minnie. "Can you?"

The brunette nods happily and tugs the zipper up. "You look _so_ pretty," she sighs dreamily. "I just know Ice will think so too."

"Thanks, Minnie," Velma smiles as she slips her bracelet and earrings on. She does hope so. Ice tells her she is beautiful all the time, but she's never lost that little thrill at the words. "Same for you an' Baby John."

Minnie immediately turns pink, but before she can say anything, the doorbell rings and Velma, grabbing her purse, moves to leave the bedroom and answer it.

"_Vel!_" chides Graziella. "Don'tcha know ya gotta keep 'em _waitin_'? Makes 'em _want_ ya more," she adds knowledgeably as Minnie's eyes widen.

Velma pauses only to roll her eyes at her best friend and quickly smooth her hands over her dress before hurrying through the hall and to the door to see three Jets looking uncomfortably spruced-up in coats and ties.

"Graz is almost ready an' Minnie'll be out in a sec," she tells Riff and Baby John, but Velma only has eyes for one boy. Reaching out, she takes Ice's hand. "Hi, honey."

The corner of her boyfriend's mouth turns up as he winds his fingers through hers. "Damn," he says appreciatively, "ya look good, Vee."

And there it is—that little shiver of anticipation and delight that comes over her every time she sees him, no matter what. Velma reaches up for him, whispers, "All for you, Daddy-O," before kissing him, long and slow. It's not as if it's been ages since they've seen each other—not even a full day—but she's been missing him the whole time anyway.

Ice is famous around West Side for his poker face, but right now it's not hard to tell that he's been missing her, too. And one of the nice things about her boyfriend, Velma thinks happily, is that he's a very good kisser. Too good, in fact. It isn't until Riff lets out a catcalling whistle that she remembers that there are other people around and she lets go, smirking up at Ice, whose pale eyes look a little unfocused as he slides his arm around her waist and clears his throat.

"Sorry, Baby John," she adds mischievously.

"N—no problem," stutters the blond boy with a weak smile, before muttering something that sounds suspiciously like "Don't trip."

Velma smiles. Minnie is like the little sister she never had, and for all his clumsy shyness, she can't help being fond of Baby John, too. She does wish, though, that he would go ahead and ask Minnie to be his girl already. It's obvious to everyone that he is crazy about her, just like everyone also knows that she feels the same way about him. Velma glances at Ice, who gives her a slow, lingering smile. And when it's that obvious, she thinks, inhaling deeply and moving closer to him, why waste time?

"Hey, Graz!" calls Riff impatiently, "get a move on, will ya?"

"You'll wait 'til we're good an' ready, Riffy-poo!" sings out Graziella sweetly from her room.

Minnie, face flushed and excited, hurries out of the bedroom and over to Baby John, who promptly turns purple. "Hi, Johnny," she greets. "You look very handsome tonight. Hello, Riff," she adds with a sunny smile in his direction. Riff manages a half-grin at her before he goes back to boring his eyes into Graziella's door.

Baby John audibly gulps. "H—hi, Minnie. You look—real nice," he offers with a feeble attempt at a smile.

Velma breathes a mental sigh, wishing that Baby John could just for once get past his shyness and give Minnie a _real_ compliment, but Minnie doesn't seem to mind. "_Thank_ you!" she beams instead.

Riff, still antsy, discreetly rolls his eyes at Ice and taps his foot. "Graz, baby, c'mon—"

"Ya called?" Graziella purrs for the second time that night, vamping in her doorway to display her curves to the greatest effect.

And it works. Riff's mouth quirks up in an approving smile. "You're late, Graz," he grumbles as she struts over, but it's clear his heart isn't it in as he pulls the redhead into his side. "Damn it if it wasn't worth it, though."

"That's what I thought," preens Graziella, tapping him on the nose. "Now c'mon, Riffy-poo, we're gonna be late!"

Velma trades an amused glance with Ice as Graziella tugs Riff down the stairs and the three couples set off. Riff and Graziella fight like nobody's business, and she's heard both of them swear up and down that it's the last straw and they're not taking any more of it, but every single time they argue, they get back together again. That's just the way they work. Fight, make up, fight, make up. It's how they are, and to be honest, Velma wouldn't know what to make of them if they suddenly stopped bickering all the time. Neither, she suspects, would they.

"I like your way better," murmurs Ice cautiously after they're a good distance down the street and it's abundantly obvious that Riff and Graziella are paying everyone else absolutely no attention at all. "Drop-dead gorgeous _and_ on time."

Velma dimples. "Don't be so charming," she teases, glancing up at him. "It don't suit you strong, silent types."

Ice, keeping his eyes on the street, half-smiles. "I'm a type?"

Velma giggles. "The _best_ type."

Ice squeezes her shoulder. "Better'n those lousy idiots back in your old neighborhood?"

"The ones you beat up?" deadpans Velma.

Ice ducks his head a little with an abashed grin. "Well, you didn't mind, did ya?"

Instead of answering such a silly question, Velma smiles to herself and settles happily into Ice's side, holding him even tighter. At this moment under the moon and the stars and the night sky in the arms of the boy who means everything to her, there's nowhere in the world she'd rather be. Happiness like this, Velma thinks, is what life is all about.

After a moment, she glances up at him. "You still walkin' me home after, honey?"

Instead of confirming, Ice grimaces. "About that…"

Velma's gaze doesn't leave his. "What?" she asks slowly, searching his face for clues. She has a sinking feeling she knows what he is about to say, but she hopes she is wrong.

She is not. "Riff's challengin' the Sharks tonight 'round ten," Ice admits in a low sigh. "An' he might wanna have the war council after the dance if there're too many cops an' people around before."

Velma bites her lip and stares at the pavement. She knows it's not his fault, that it wasn't him who picked the fight with the other gang, but still. The timing…well, she should have known it was too good to last. "Somethin' happen today? Last you said, it wasn't that bad."

Ice tightens his grip on her waist a little. "They jumped Baby John this afternoon at the playground," he explains. "'S what happened to his face."

Velma glances up at Baby John and Minnie, who is indeed cooing over the livid red welts on his cheek and ear, and sighs, looking back at him. "An' it's gotta be tonight?"

"Better sooner'n later," Ice nods, eyes intense. "We keep lettin' 'em go like this, an' pretty soon they'll be settin' up camp down the block from Doc's."

Velma doesn't say anything. Sure, they're Puerto Ricans, but they can't really be that much of a threat, can they? Enough to need a war council? A _rumble_? They've only had one since she's been here. More than a few fistfights in the alleys, sure, Velma thinks, but only one all-out, full-blown rumble, like the kind Graziella and Clarice talk about in hushed whispers after making sure Minnie is nowhere in sight. Pauline and Bernice are usually in on this conversation, too. After all, thinks Velma, quirking up one corner of her mouth, it concerns what they like most of all.

She still remembers that night. Before Ice came back, eyes hot and blood full of adrenaline, Velma hadn't understood exactly why the girls were so excited that day. Just wait, they'd said. You'll see. It's like nothing you've ever—

But then Minnie had come over and the girls had clammed up and she had had to wait until that night to see what they meant.

Velma shivers now at the memory. She is the last to deny that she would turn down another post-rumble date, but she also knows that half the passion is just plain relief that he's okay. Is that worth the risk? Maybe, she supposes, but only if he comes back safe every time, like Graziella has assured her is the case with Riff. Uncertainty, like most of the things that are out of Velma's control, isn't really her style.

Ice pulls her a little closer, and Velma, glancing up and seeing the shamefaced look in his blue eyes, realizes with a start that they've walked a whole block in silence. "I'll make it up to ya," he promises, dropping a kiss on her forehead.

Velma sighs. "You don't need to do that, Ice," she says softly. Velma knows he already feels guilty enough, and if there really is going to be a war council tonight, Ice, as Riff's friend and lieutenant, doesn't need any distractions. She slides her arms around him and sighs again, resigned. "Just—stay in one piece, okay?"

Ice gives her a half-smile. "If that's all it takes," he says, voice low and sure, "I'll try."


	4. the dust of the stars in your eyes

Disclaimer: Not even the progression of the dance belongs to me. That'd be the fabulous Jerome Robbins. :)

Note: If you're reading _Now It Begins_ (which you should be), you probably already know that **HedgehogQuill** and I have analyzed the dance to the point of ridiculousness, so chapters four and five are based off of that, and off of my interpretation of Ice and Velma's characters (they keep telling me I should let them make out more. Um.). Clearly, I have no life. So as always, feel free to let me know if you have any burning questions, concerns, or righteous outrage that you'd like to air. All and any kinds of feedback are cherished. :)

For: three reviewers who each did Something Amazing this week—**HedgehogQuill** (who finished AP exams forever and posted two Chapters of Awesome for her fics), **Megfly** (who sent me an epic, epic DVD of her show and told me the most incredible stories about her pet characters), and **xXc0okieSsNcrEamXx** (who put up a seriously adorable fic and had a pretty fantastic show of her own). Heart. :) And also Jerry Robbins, who, if he were alive, would kill me because words can't accurately portray the epic win of the dance. You have to see it to believe it.

Proper credit: Chapters 2, 3, and 4 of **HQ's** _Now It Begins_. They're like a freaking master's thesis on the dance, and invaluable for research. :)

Hope you enjoy!

—viennacantabile

* * *

fell the angels

four : the dust of the stars in your eyes

.

The future was with Fate. The present was our own.

—Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, The Poison Belt

.

By the time they get to the gym, half of Graziella's lipstick has already rubbed off and Riff looks like he's got some kind of tropical fever from all the red on his face. Baby John and Minnie have actually graduated to holding hands. And Velma, if she hasn't exactly forgotten about the challenge tonight, has managed to push it out of her mind. All of that is later, and right now she just wants to dance.

But as soon as they walk into the hall, a middle-aged man in a suit and bowtie eagerly comes rushing over to greet Riff and Ice. Velma raises an eyebrow. She has no idea who this man is, but she can already tell that whatever he's selling isn't going to fly with any gang member worth his name. He is actually reaching for the Jets' hands as they roll their eyes and do their best to ignore his gabble.

"Well, damn," says Riff, surveying the room after they finally shake the suit off, "ain't this a sight. All this for little ol' us?"

Velma looks around. The gym, with its red-painted walls and arched, stained-glass window half-hidden behind a basketball hoop, does appear to have been cleaned up a bit. There is a table with a punch bowl and cups scattered all over it, and Velma smiles as she catches sight of Clarice and Big Deal already working the dance floor, along with several others she doesn't recognize, including a squinty-eyed blonde wearing green and a curvy brunette in a dress that looks just like the Cheshire Cat's stripes in _Alice in Wonderland_. Her smile fades a bit, however, when she sees Bernice and Pauline standing to the side like hungry cats ready to pounce. Velma sighs. It's not hard to figure out who they're waiting for.

"Uh, Riff," murmurs Ice, glancing at his fearless leader, "speakin'-a sights…ya got lipstick all over your face."

Riff considers this with a grin as his hand drifts up to touch his cheek. "Well, gee. I guess I do."

"Ain't that somethin'," adds a smug Graziella with a titter.

Velma rolls her eyes at her best friend, then scans the room again. Clarice and Big Deal have stopped dancing and are making a beeline over to the group, as are several other Jets and girls around the room. Ice squeezes her shoulder as the couple reaches them. "Back in a sec."

Velma nods as he settles in with the other boys and turns to the girls, who are all ooh-ing and ahh-ing over dresses and hair and makeup. By this time, an arm-in-arm Pauline and Bernice have sauntered over, too. Velma, giving Bernice, the once-over, has to admit that the brunette looks good. Though Bernice's blue, ruffled dress isn't _quite_ to Velma's taste (especially considering what Velma herself is wearing), she can't find any fault with her short dark bob or makeup. Bernice looks—well, very pretty. It's not hard to understand how she gets so many boys.

That's just it, though, Velma thinks, hiding a frown as she nods to both girls. Sometimes she wonders if she'd like Bernice a little bit more if the brunette hadn't so very emphatically expressed her appreciation for Velma's boyfriend when they'd first met. Of course, Bernice hadn't known Velma and Ice were an item at the time, but that still doesn't change the fact that Velma is pretty sure Bernice would happily jump into bed with Ice if she thought she could get away with it. If Ice wanted to.

At this thought, Velma relaxes. That's the nice thing about her boyfriend, she remembers contentedly with a cautious smile at Bernice. He _doesn't_ want to.

It's a good thing, too, with girls like Pauline around. Now that Velma has a better view of the older girl, her eyes widen. Pauline is wearing a string of pearls and something that can't accurately be called a _dress_, because no dress Velma has ever heard of exposes quite so much bare skin from the ribcage down to the waist. Graziella, too, has her eyebrows raised, though what with the slit in Graziella's own skirt and the low scoop of her neckline, Velma thinks it's probably more because Graziella is irritated that she didn't think of it first than any real outrage at Pauline's immodesty.

"Ain't ya cold?" the redhead asks bluntly.

Pauline smirks. "Nah, I got a nice trick-a warmin' myself up. _If_ ya know what I mean," she adds, casting a long, slow glance over at the Jets.

Clarice darts an alarmed look at Minnie, but when it becomes apparent that her happily oblivious best friend does not, in fact, know what Pauline means, she visibly breathes a sigh of relief. Still, Velma can see that the brunette is not pleased with the older girl, and she can't exactly blame Clarice. Minnie doesn't know the first thing about what Pauline gets up to with the boys and none of the Jet girls wants to be the one to tell her. Except, it seems, Pauline.

"Yep, we do," says Clarice, rushing to distract her. "Say, did ya know Minnie's here with Baby John?"

Pauline arches an interested eyebrow. "Really. Well, ain't that cute. Ya mind if I steal him for a dance or two later, Minnie? He's just so…" She trails off and exhales throatily.

Every Jet girl besides Minnie glares at her. And Pauline smirks. "So _sweet_," she finishes innocently. "I feel like his big sister, or somethin'!"

"I just bet ya do," mutters Bernice, earning a swat from her twin. "Ow!"

"Of course you can!" Minnie beams. "Who's _your_ date, Pauline?"

The older girl smiles quite suggestively. "All of 'em. Any of 'em. I ain't choosy. Maybe I'll even take a turn with Riff or Ice."

"The hell ya will," Graziella snaps.

Velma gives Pauline a cool stare. Bernice might have a taste for running around with the Jets, but Pauline is something else entirely. She is—there is no other word for it—_easy_. Velma has never exactly been fond of girls like that, and she likes Pauline even less right now. "Ice can do what he wants. Not," she pauses, eyeing the older girl's bare midriff again, "that I think he wants to."

Pauline doesn't appear to have heard the last sentence. "Oh really?" she coos. "_Thanks_, Vel!"

Velma gives her a doubtful look, but decides not to comment. Ice was turning down Pauline even before he'd met Velma, after all, and she has a feeling Pauline won't lack for other company, anyway. She turns instead to Clarice. "How're you? Ya look real pretty," she adds sincerely. Clarice's dress dips low at the neck and hugs her hips in a way that Velma imagines must drive Big Deal crazy—something her friend is very good at, she thinks with a small smile. But what Velma really likes is the shifting shade between taupe, pink, and purple. "I wish I could pull that color off."

Clarice laughs. "Well, I could say the same for that blue, Vel. How many times has Ice told ya how nice ya look?"

Velma dimples. "Four, so far. What about Big Deal?"

The brunette flashes a matching grin back at her. "Oh, Frankie ain't doin' much talkin'," she says quietly enough so that Minnie can't hear. "An' I ain't exactly complainin'."

Velma giggles. Then she catches sight of a gloomy figure on the other side of the room and raises an eyebrow. "An' Gee-Tar?"

Clarice smirks. "Ten. Frankie don't like it too much, but Gee-Tar's just bein' nice, so what can I do?"

Velma gives her friend a knowing smile. "I bet I could think of a few things. Tellin' Gee-Tar to pick his jaw up off the floor an' stop droolin', for starters."

Clarice laughs. "Frankie's a big boy, he can take care-a himself." Her grin widens. "'Sides, how else'm I s'posed to keep him in his place?"

"Oh, Clarice," Velma sighs, amused in spite of herself. Clarice has a habit of making her boyfriend jealous, and she has an uneasy feeling that it's not strictly fair to Big Deal. Or Gee-Tar, either, for that matter. But as Clarice is always reminding her, the Jet knows she'll never like him as more than friends and he still keeps coming around. Theoretically, that makes it his own fault if his heart gets broken. Still, though, Velma has a feeling that Clarice doesn't try very hard to keep Gee-Tar away. "Y'know—"

Before she can say more, though, Minnie flutters over with a rustle of caramel-orange tulle.

"Clarice," she whispers anxiously, "I'm having a—_problem_—with my tights. Do you think you could help me?"

Clarice smiles at her best friend. "Sure, Minnie. C'mon, let's find the bathroom." Flashing a grateful smile at Velma, the brunette leads Minnie away.

"We'll go, too," adds Pauline languidly, and as she takes Bernice by the arm and strolls after them, Velma isn't sorry at all to see her leave. She supposes Pauline would be a nice girl, if she ever stopped chasing the boys—but that's just it. That's all she ever does. A Pauline without the Jets is like Big Deal without his gum, or Action without the fight in him, or even the Jets without Riff. Unimaginable.

"Oh, look," snickers Graziella, breaking Velma's train of thought, "it's the he-she. And don't it look nice."

Velma turns her head to see Anybodys lurking around the Jets. True to form, Velma can tell even from this distance that there isn't a speck of makeup on her face. And, if Velma's not mistaken, the tomboy is actually wearing jeans and a ratty-looking tank. To a dance. "What's she doin' here?"

"Hell if I know," scoffs Graziella, putting a disdainful hand on her hip. "But if that flat-chested dyke thinks she's gonna get Riff's attention by dressin' just like him, she's got another think comin'." The redhead juts her own ample chest out, seemingly unaware of the contradiction in her words. "I swear, Riff has that _exact_ same outfit." She sniffs. "'Cept it looks way better on _him_."

As if she hears, the tomboy turns and makes an awful face at them. Velma stifles a giggle as Graziella's eyes bug out and she half-shrieks, jumping about a foot backward. "The _hell_?"

"I guess she thinks you look nice, too," says Velma with a straight face.

Graziella rolls her eyes at her best friend. "Funny, Vel. Y'know, I don't see why Riff don't just run her off," she sneers. "An' if he don't, maybe _I_ oughta. She's just as bad as the wannabes." The redhead casts a scornful glance at the gaggle of girls who _are_ close enough to hear her words, though they pretend they don't.

Velma grimaces as she notices Carole, Susan, Priscilla, Marilyn, Nanette, Gina, and Wilma, most in some variation of the Jet-approved shades of blue or orange. "I was hopin' they wouldn' show," she says in a low voice.

Graziella snorts. "Not a chance. They're as bad as Pauline about Jets." She turns her gaze back to where Anybodys is hovering close to the boys. "Y'know, I think I _am_ gonna go run her off. She's annoyin' me."

Velma gives her a halfhearted smile. "Don't think she's gonna like that too much, Graz."

"Don't matter what she likes," says Graziella determinedly, putting her hands on her hips. "_I'm_ Riff's girl, an' I say she better scat. Now."

Velma shrugs in defeat. When Graziella gets going like this, it's next to impossible to stop her, and by now Velma has learned not to try. "I'm just gonna get some punch or somethin'," she says. "Come back soon."

As soon as Graziella clacks away, a tall, blond figure pops up next to Velma. "Hiya, Velma," beams the Jet.

Velma eyes him uncertainly. "Hi, Mouthpiece."

"Gee, ya sure look pretty tonight, Velma," he goes on, trademark dopey grin stretching from ear to ear. "Just like a picture. Here, I heard ya say ya wanted punch, so I got ya some."

Velma bites back a startled laugh as she takes the plastic cup from him. "Oh. Well, thanks."

"D'ya wanna dance?" the tall Jet asks, placid face lit up and hopeful. Velma feels guilty about bursting his bubble, but for both her sake and his, it has to be done.

"I don't know if Ice would like that," she says tactfully, taking a sip and glancing around. Sure enough, she spots Ice barreling back over, looking none too happy. "Maybe later?"

Mouthpiece beams. "Gee, sure, Velma! Hiya, Ice," he adds cheerfully to the Jet lieutenant as he approaches at a quickstep. "I was just tellin' Velma how pretty she looks."

Ice's murderous expression doesn't change as he puts his arm around his girlfriend. "Yeah. I know. Bye, Mouthpiece."

Mouthpiece blinks, and obligingly backs away, keeping his eyes fastened on Velma. "Bye!"

Once the tall Jet is a significant distance away, Velma laughs. "Honey, ya look like a little kid who won't share his toys," she informs him with amusement. "Quit sulkin'."

"So what if I don't wanna share?" grumbles Ice, still glaring in Mouthpiece's direction. "Kid should find his own girl." Then he glances at her, his pale eyes softening a bit. "Ya do look pretty, though."

Velma dimples at this fifth repetition. "What, ya needed him to tell ya that?"

Ice snorts. "As if." Taking her punch, he tosses it into the nearest trash can and busies himself in pouring her another.

"I wasn't done with that," protests Velma halfheartedly.

"Yeah, well, who knows what he put in there," Ice mutters, a dark scowl on his face as he hands her the new cup.

Taking a sip, Velma giggles. "Ya really think he'd think-a somethin' like that? Didn't ya say he didn't even make it through tenth grade?"

The corners of Ice's mouth turn up at last, and his face relaxes. "Guess not," he admits with a chuckle. "Ya can't blame me, though. Kid won't quit _lookin'_ at ya. It's gettin' on my nerves." As if to prove his point, Ice points another patented glare in Mouthpiece's direction; a distinct, if faraway, yelp is heard. "'Sides," he continues edgily, shifting his weight, "what if you start givin' him the time-a day some time? Even if it's just like Clarice," he adds, gesturing over to where Clarice, having just returned from the bathroom, is talking to Gee-Tar, a visibly grumpy Big Deal nearby.

Velma gives her boyfriend a rueful smile. "Look," she says, "you know Clarice told Gee-Tar she ain't gonna like him. An' you know I'd do the same, if Mouthpiece ever quit starin' an' _said_ anythin' about it."

Ice sighs. "Yeah, I know."

"But since he _ain't_ never actually come out an' said anythin'," Velma goes on with a placating hug, "I can't do anythin' but keep on treatin' him same as the other Jets."

Ice puts his arms around her and returns the squeeze. "I guess so," he concedes. "But I still don't like it." He snorts, and Velma can practically feel the glare he sends out at Mouthpiece again. "'Specially not when he _keeps lookin at ya_."

"Yeah, well," says Velma, giggling up at him, more than a little amused, "I don't think I gotta worry about nothin' with you around watchin' my back." She smirks. "An' my front."

Ice cracks a grin down at her. "Nope," he says wholeheartedly, "ya sure don't. Dance?"

Velma can't help the smile that comes onto her own face. "Thought you'd never ask, Daddy-O." Finishing off her punch, she sets her cup down and follows Ice out onto the half-full dance floor, where an energetic lindyhop is just starting up. Within moments they are caught up in the rhythm of the steps and the movement of the music. This is the kind of dance that gets Velma's blood flowing, her adrenaline going, and now, Ice is caught up in it, too. He dances hard, sharp, fast, and Velma, eyes locked possessively on him, can't wait for later tonight and a not so different kind of dance.

She doesn't know how long this whirl of motion lasts—there is almost nothing better than losing herself in a haze of jazz and swing and jive, and Velma wants it to last forever. They take breaks every time they need a drink or someone new shows up, and Velma makes small-talk with the girls as she always does, but her eyes never leave him. Part of what has always attracted her to Ice is that he's not some sleek and shiny dandy; he is what he is, and Ice is never going to be the type who breaks out the tux for every other occasion. And she likes that. But she has to admit, Velma thinks as she smiles seductively at him behind the girls' backs, when he does clean up, he cuts quite a nice figure in a jacket and tie. And gee, whiz, she thinks with a sigh, watching his lean, angular form twist and move, he sure can dance.

By the time all the Jets have arrived, the dancehall is full of teenagers, social workers, and the odd policeman or two. There are some younger kids—Velma looks, but doesn't see her brother—and a few couples from school hanging around the outskirts of the room. Most of the floor, though is taken up by the local gang members. The ones in green, Graziella has previously informed her, are the Emeralds, and the few black teenagers wandering around are probably Musclers from Harlem, Ice tells her.

"Harlem?" she wonders during one of their breathers. "What're they doin' here, then?"

Ice shrugs, eyes focused on the entrance. "Prob'ly scoutin' around to see if they can take our turf. 'S what they all do."

Velma smiles at him. "Let 'em try."

Ice flashes her a crooked smile. "Oh, they will," he confirms with a chuckle, "but we'll knock 'em down the cellar, just like we do all them other gangs."

There's one last group on the dance floor, but Velma doesn't need to ask who the dark-haired, dark-skinned boys and girls in gaudy shades of pink, red, and purple are. They look different, they _are_ different, from the way they dress to the way they dance. The only thing she doesn't know from a glance is what name the Puerto Ricans go by, and Ice has already told her that. Sharks.

Velma sneaks a glance here and there, but it's difficult to get a good look at them. She's not even sure why she wants to—they're just Puerto Ricans, after all, hardly worth the effort—but she figures she ought to take a leaf from the Jets' book and know a little bit about their enemy. The boys don't seem to understand that it's summer—they're all in dark suits that have to be sweltering by now. But then, Velma remembers, they're fresh off the boat from Puerto Rico, after all. It must be even hotter there than it is here. Still, though, she thinks with a frown, they stick out like a sore thumb. It's almost as if they don't _want_ to blend in. Which makes no sense at all.

The girls are no different. Their dresses are flashy, bright, in eye-catching shapes and colors that are barely on the right side of proper. Some of them are pretty, Velma allows, in a strange, exotic kind of way she hasn't quite seen before, though of course not to the Jets' taste. But their smooth, proud gazes slide right over the Jets like they're not even there, which irritates Velma more than it really should. Even if this is neutral territory, even if there is nothing going on right now, still she feels everyone who is not a Jet should sit up and take notice of the best gang in the room. Especially, she thinks, the new kids in town.

The music flares into a bluesy, brassy jangle, and Velma shakes her head and refocuses on Ice. She doesn't know exactly what time it is, but it can't be that far from ten o'clock, and if Velma has to think about challenges and war councils and rumbles tonight, there will be more than enough opportunity to do it later. Relax, she tells herself as she circles Ice and the dancers around her fling their arms into the air with careless abandon. Worrying can wait.

The dance is still going but right in the middle of it all, Velma feels a tap on her right shoulder and she turns. Her eyes widen. "Action. How ya doin'?"

The stocky, dark-haired boy grins and holds out his hand. "Great, Velma. Dance?"

"Oh. Well—" She hesitates, looks back over her shoulder at Ice, who shrugs.

Action jiggles up and down on the balls of his feet, ready to go. "I—ah—already cleared it with him before. He's cool with it."

"Oh," Velma says again, looking down at him. Action can really swing it—and if Ice doesn't mind… She smiles. "Sure."

She faces him and they get to it, shimmying and jiving like there's no tomorrow as the Jets and their girls form a semi-circle around them to watch. Pauline, left without a partner, closes in on Ice, whose face blanches for a moment before he puts a resigned arm around her. Velma swallows a giggle. Ice won't admit it, but she knows the Jet-loving girl is one of the few things that scares him silly and the sight of him cautiously snapping his fingers to the beat with her is funny enough that it overcomes the other part of her that is thoroughly annoyed with Pauline for glomming onto her boyfriend the second Velma steps away.

Redirecting her attention to Action, Velma hides a confused frown. It's strange, she thinks, that even though Action's dancing with her—and the hot-tempered boy _can_ dance; he flings himself into the steps like he's gearing up for war—he isn't all that close. Actually, Velma notes with some surprise, he's a good three feet away. And he only touches her once, as he grabs her hand to get up off the floor. Then he spins her around, and almost immediately, Ice cuts between them again, sending Action an irate glare. Oh, _that's_ why, she thinks with a small smile, putting two and two together.

"Geez, I told him no funny business," Ice fumes under his breath as they move off to watch A-Rab, Mouthpiece, and Anybodys cut away from the others. "Sorry, Vee."

Velma laughs. Ice's idea of funny business, she thinks with amusement, is everyone else's idea of friendliness. "Well, he sure can cut a rug," she teases. Ice frowns, and she stands on her tiptoes to whisper in his ear. "But I like you better, anyway."

When she settles back, his face is relaxed, and she takes the moment to shove him playfully. "An' what about you? she asks, half-serious. She eyes Pauline critically. Her hair, Velma notes for the first time, trading glances between her and Anybodys, is almost as short as the tomboy's. If a _bit_ better-groomed. "Pauline a good dancer?"

Ice's shrug is almost a shudder as they pick up the beat again. "Wasn't lookin'."

"Good," Velma smirks, stifling a surprised laugh as she sees A-Rab's foot meet the back of Anybodys's jeans. Everyone and his mother knows that A-Rab is one of the most preoccupied with the fairer sex, but she's always thought his type was, well—a little curvier.

"But if I _was_ lookin'," Ice says, drawing her closer, "I'd say she dances like somebody's ma." He winces. "Snowboy an' Joyboy's, maybe."

Velma giggles—she's heard plenty about Mrs. Boyer and her taste for younger men, and she agrees with the comparison—and whirls into his arms. All around them, Jets and Sharks are up against their girls, hips meeting hips in a dangerously close grind as they heat up the air around them. This, Velma thinks, is what it means to be young and alive. This feeling, right here. Right now.

"An' between you'n their ma," Ice continues, pressing her body to his and moving slowly, deliciously against her, "there ain't no contest."

"There'd better not be," Velma murmurs, looking straight up at him as they sway to the rhythm. She wants him, he wants her, and she can hardly catch her breath, he's so close.

Ice doesn't say anything, just gives her a decidedly rakish grin as the music changes and he deliberately distances his body from hers, though he keeps his arm around her waist. Velma, still snapping her fingers and tapping her feet to the beat, pouts at the loss of heat. "Oh, that's just mean. How'd ya feel if I did that to you, honey?"

In answer, he backs her up against the wall and moves in close, pale eyes intense, as they keep dancing. "Don't act all innocent," he murmurs with an amused smile. "It ain't like ya _ain't_ done it before, neither. Remember the closet at school?"

Velma dimples and just skips coyly around him. "If ya want, we could find one right here an' I could make up for—"

And then Riff knocks Ice on the shoulder and Ice, head whipping around, moves to face off against the newly-arrived Bernardo and the Sharks. It happens so quickly that it takes Velma a moment to realize where they've gone, but when she does, she sighs. Hands on her hips, Velma walks over to Graziella, exchanging put-out glances with her best friend.

"You'd think they ain't got better things to look at," Graziella huffs as they follow the flow of the Jets and their allies over to the center of the room.

"An' _do_," Velma adds with a sigh, putting one hand on her hip and eyeing the Sharks with dislike. Just what is it that is so important about these Puerto Ricans, she wonders, that means the Jets have to drop everything and make like they're going to throw down right here, right now?

She doesn't pretend to understand why the Jets are so territorial about the streets they have marked out as their own. Sure, Velma has a theory or two, just like most of the other girls, but that idea of ownership and defense of a few blocks of the city has never been quite clear to her, mostly because in the end—no matter which way you look at it—it's just a little patch of world no one else cares about. What would happen, she thinks suddenly, if all of this just got torn down? If this neighborhood disappeared, just like that? What then?

Velma sighs. Whatever the answer is, she supposes, it's not even important. This is the way thing are for the boys of West Side, and if it matters to Ice, then, well, it does. And, even if she doesn't quite understand why, that means it matters to her, too.

"Golly," says Graziella loudly. "Would ya look at those dresses the Spic girls have on? Some of 'em look like they stuck a carpet an' a pillow on legs!"

Velma blinks. "What?"

"You know," says Graziella, gesturing at the dark-skinned girls. "Them stupid carpet-patterned dresses with the big puffy skirts. Dumb Spics," she mutters under her breath. "Think they're so great."

Velma's lips quirk up into a smile. "Don't worry," she tells her best friend. "We'll show 'em. We're with the Jets, after all."

"The greatest," Graziella automatically adds.

"Right," Velma says firmly, because it is true. Her eyes slide from the Sharks to the Jets, assembled in the center of the room, and linger on Ice for a moment before she meets Graziella's gaze again. "Which means we are, too."


	5. up to the moon

Disclaimer: If I owned _WSS_, oodles of Ice/Velma fluff would be required in every single production. In fact, the whole thing would be about them. Like this fic. Eheh. XD

Note: Fun trivia: chapters three through five used to be one long chapter. Aren't you glad I split them up? :) Anyway, have revised catch the moon, my first-ever _WSS_ fic and my account of how Ice and Velma met, so you may want to take a look at that if you find yourself with nothing to do, heh. Again, it's certainly not necessary, but it'll inform your reading of this fic. :) As always, feel free to contact me with questions, concerns, or problems!

For: **HedgehogQuill**, who's been kind enough to listen to me rant over the last day or so. And again, Jerry Robbins, who is probably cursing me from his grave, heh.

Hope you enjoy!

—viennacantabile

* * *

fell the angels

five : up to the moon

.

Thus, though we cannot make our sun  
Stand still, yet we will make him run.

—Andrew Marvell, "To His Coy Mistress"

.

Of course, this being a respectable dance, in a respectable settlement house, with respectable chaperones—if not attendees—the standoff doesn't last.

"All right, boys and girls, all right!"

Velma and Graziella turn to see that same dope in the polka-dot bowtie and suit standing between Riff and Bernardo. Ice is already moving back to her, annoyed. Velma, though, is secretly glad for the interruption, because as much as she is a Jet's girl, through and through, she really doesn't see the point of wasting time with these Sharks. Especially, she thinks as Ice holds his hand out to her, when there are so many better things to do on a night like this.

Smiling, Velma crosses to Ice and and lets him guide her behind Riff as the suit keeps talking. "Who's the bowtie, anyway?" she asks, putting her arms around him and feeling very comfortable. Not for the first time, Velma wonders at how perfectly she fits into him, every curve meeting the hollows of his body like they were made for each other, and she is happy.

Ice, pale eyes still focused on the adults in the middle of the room, shrugs. "Some square called Glad Hand. Social worker," he adds with a grimace. "One-a them do-gooders out to reform us _juvenile delinquents_."

"What's he sayin'?" she laughs. Now that there isn't any danger of a fight right here on the dance floor, Velma is thinking that she'd like very much to pick up where they left off before the Sharks so rudely interrupted. Very deliberately, she raises one hand and ghosts it down the length of his tie. "I can't hear a thing."

Ice glances at her, and it's clear by his expression that he's finally figured out what's on her mind. "No damn clue," he says, sliding an arm around her waist.

Velma looks up at him with one eyebrow arched. "Somethin' about gettin' closer to old friends, I think."

"I could do that," he says, holding her tighter. "What're ya doin' later?"

She smirks as the bowtie gabbles about something that sounds like "get-together dance." She wouldn't mind that, actually, Velma thinks, gaze lingering on her boyfriend's, but somehow she doubts Glad Hand has the same kind of "get-together dance" in mind as she does. "You, I'm hopin'."

Ice settles his other arm around her waist and grins. "I could do that, too."

"Y'know," breathes Velma as Glad Hand stammers something about circles and boys and girls and who knows what else, "that mouth-a his keeps flappin'. Whaddaya think he's tryin' to say?"

Ice laughs quietly. "Who cares? Ya look great tonight, did I tell ya that?"

Velma dimples. "I think ya mighta."

A-Rab's sudden, gleeful voice, however, is more than audible as first Ice, then Velma, turns to take a look: "Hey, where're you?"

Glad Hand chortles uneasily, but forges on, rocking back and forth on his heels. "All right. Now, uh, when—when—when the music stops, each boy dances with whichever girl is opposite. Okay?"

The gym erupts in amusement from both sides, but Glad Hand seems to take it as a sign of encouragement. "Two circles, kids!"

Ice turns back to Velma. "Hey," he says, a half-smile lurking around his mouth, "I can think of a lotta better things to say than he can. Wanna hear?"

Velma arches an intrigued eyebrow and leans in. "Do tell." She is so busy concentrating on her very appealing boyfriend and the very appealing things he is murmuring that the next time she can tear herself away to see what is happening, Snowboy is dancing out, clutching his stomach, moaning and groaning: "Ooh! It hoits, it hoits, ooh, it hoits, ooh!"

"Snowboy," says an unamused Riff, and suddenly it gets very, very quiet as the Jets and Sharks seem to consider this proposition seriously for the first time. No one wants to make the first move.

And then Riff moves out onto the floor and jerks his head at his girlfriend. After a pause, Graziella joins him.

"Vee," says Ice under the catcalls that follow the redhead and continue in Spanish as the Shark leader takes his place out on the floor. "I gotta back him up. Ya cool with it?"

She gazes up at him, smiles. "If I get the right guy for my trouble."

Riff snaps his fingers then, and the Jets and their girls begin moving out to form a circle with the Sharks. Velma follows Ice to the circle, exchanging skeptical glances with Graziella around a Shark girl in a lavender dress who can only be Bernardo's girl. She has to admit that the girl's dress is nice, if a touch homemade-looking. But what matters is the boy standing across from her—tall, dark, and—she has to admit this, too—handsome. Velma eyes him, wondering what it must be like, leading the gang that is destined to lose. That is all the Jets' enemies are: opponents on the losing side, because the Jets are the best, and the best always win. At the very least, thinks Velma, turning back to her boyfriend with a small smile, he is nothing compared to Ice.

She doesn't let go of his hand 'til she absolutely has to. That little bit of warm, skin-on-skin contact sends shivers up her arm, down her spine, and into the bottom of her stomach. If he can do _that_ without even trying tonight, she thinks, inhaling slowly, later, well…

And then the whistle blows and the promenade starts and Velma, still looking at Ice, walks the same way he does—apparently she'd missed the part about different directions—and almost collides with a Shark girl wearing a bright red dress and brassy hair. Velma stares for a second, unimpressed. That's out of a bottle, she judges, thinking about her own white-blonde hair with something like cool satisfaction, then turns around and goes the right way. Velma is pleased to note that all eyes are on the circle, as they should be, and straightens up a little. She is not going to be the one to make the Jets look less than they are.

When she gets around to the other side and passes Ice, he doesn't look at her, but brushes her fingertips with his. The contact is electric; Velma smiles to herself and speeds up, wanting to hurry up and dance with him. This is all such a waste of time, she thinks, glancing back behind her. Sure, Velma will dance with whichever Jet she lands in front of, but she's just going to end up with Ice eventually, anyway. There is no point to this silliness. She's just passed him again when the music stops.

For a moment no one moves. And then Velma looks to her right. The closest boy, she realizes with a jolt, is Bernardo.

Her eyes narrow and she steps back, hands on her hips. Velma knows the music that is starting up and she is not about to do this dance with a Shark who is definitely _not_ the right guy. Even if she wanted to, Ice wouldn't exactly be happy about his girl dancing with a PR. But the Shark reaches behind Riff for his girl, Riff goes for Graziella, and, smiling, Velma turns to Ice and holds out her hand. He takes it and doesn't hesitate in pulling her over to the Jets, glaring at Bernardo. She doesn't say it, but gazing happily up at him, Velma loves the possessive look in his eyes, revels in the fact that she's _his_. No one else's, not even to borrow. As he is hers.

The energy in the room is sparking, sizzling, waiting for them to claim it, use it. And even though Riff hasn't gotten to deliver the message to the Sharks yet, there is another kind of challenge happening right here, right now. This music—the Latin mambo—pushes them on, and with the blare of the trumpets the tension in the room spills over and they are dancing, bodies twisting and legs kicking and feet flying. Sure, thinks Velma determinedly as she and Ice work the floor, this dance might not be from America. But _they_ are in America right now, and there is no way the Jets are letting anyone else win tonight.

She is still moving with the music when Riff, to her left, raises a shout. "Tony!"

Velma glances over, eyes widening. She hasn't seen Tony in forever, and from what Ice has said, neither have the Jets. But still, he is here tonight and Riff, scrambling over to greet him with Graziella in tow, seems to be expecting him. Oh well, she supposes, refocusing on Ice, it shouldn't make a difference. There will still be a challenge, and a war-council, and Velma will still have to wait for Ice to come back to her at the end of the night. Whether Tony is here or not doesn't really matter.

But just as she's thinking this, it becomes clear that the Shark couples have something up their sleeve as they advance in a line toward the center of the room. Velma spins to a stop and glances over, a little off-balance. By the time she looks at Ice again, he has halted, too, and is frowning as an furious Anybodys sprints over to alert them, practically spitting in her outrage.

Velma can't really hear what she is saying over the music, but for once, she is in full agreement with the tomboy as the smug Sharks spread out over the dance floor. This, she thinks, eyeing Bernardo's girl with disdain as she twirls her purple skirts, is not acceptable at all.

As the Jets and their girls retreat to figure out how to counterattack, Velma smirks at Ice and squeezes his arm. "We lettin' them PRs take over like that, Mr. Jet?"

Ice grins back. "Hell, no."

And it's their turn now to form a line and _go_, take back what is theirs—the spotlight and the dance floor and this whole night. Take _that_, thinks Velma, unable to hold back a grin as they show the Sharks and their girls exactly what the Jets think of them. But then her eyes widen as she turns and sees not Ice, but _Mouthpiece_ in front of her.

"It's later!" he trumpets happily, and Velma, not seeing a way to get out of this, gives a weak smile. Beside her, Clarice has ended up with Gee-Tar, and Velma sends her a quick, curious glance, but keeps going, because the important thing right now is not who they dance with, as long as it's a Jet—it's proving to the Sharks that no matter how good they are—and they are good, she grudgingly admits—the Jets and their girls are better, and always will be.

But the Sharks aren't giving up so easily. The Puerto Ricans answer by crowding the Jets out with a circle around Bernardo and his girl. Graziella darts in for a look and emerges with her lips pursed. "C'mon!" she hisses angrily, and Velma, taking the opportunity to leave a happily gyrating Mouthpiece behind, grabs Ice's hand. They and all the other Jets follow Graziella to break the cluster of Sharks and let the Jet leader and his girl demonstrate _their_ talents. And this, more than anything, thinks Velma excitedly as Graziella executes a jaw-dropping slide over the floor, is living. Forget fighting, forget the rumble: this is a high all on its own, whirling and spinning and claiming the mambo as their own as a riot of color, energy, passion, bursting and rocketing and soaring around the gym. Nothing, she thinks, giving herself over to the pulsing heart of the dance, can beat this.

Velma doesn't know how long it lasts, watching Riff and Graziella give the Sharks what-for, but as the music finally begins to slow, Big Deal hurries up, jaw set and eyes distracted. Both Velma and Ice nod, surprised. "Hey."

Big Deal jerks his head in response. "Look, can I ask a favor?" he says in a rush, glancing back and forth between them and another couple deeper in the crowd whom Velma suspects is her friend and another Jet. "Clarice got mad at me for somethin' before, an' now she won't quit dancin' with Gee-Tar, an' I just want her _back_. Damn," he mutters to himself with a scowl, "ya get blindsided by Pauline _one_ time, an' you're toast…"

Ice gives him a sympathetic grimace. "Jesus, I'm sorry, buddy. But what can _we_ do?"

Velma meets Big Deal's pleading gaze and puts her free hand on Ice's arm. "I'll go cut in."

Ice is not happy about this, and his grip on her hand tightens. "But—"

"It'll just be for one dance," Velma promises. "I'll be back soon."

Ice sighs. His cool eyes are like fire right now, and Velma shivers. She doesn't want to leave him right now, not when he's like this, but she hates it when Big Deal and Clarice fight, and this, at the very least, will get them talking. "Ya really have to?"

"She'd do the same for me," Velma reminds him, "an' he'd do the same for you." Ice, seeing the sense of this, reluctantly lets go of her hand. "See ya in a bit," she whispers, before heading over to Gee-Tar and forcing him an overly-bright smile. "Dance?"

Gee-Tar glances over at Clarice, who is giving Velma a shrewd look that says she knows exactly what her friend is doing. "Well, sure, Velma…"

"Great," Velma says, taking his hand and mentally shuddering at its clamminess. Clarice raises an eyebrow as if to protest, and Velma shakes her head at her friend because this is what Jet girls do, help each other out for their own good. _Scat_, she mouths, and as the brunette shrugs and scurries off, Velma focuses her attention on Gee-Tar, already counting the minutes until she can return to Ice.

The dance, it appears, is a cha-cha, and Velma frowns. Not only is it slow enough to allow conversation—not a plus right now—it's more romantic than any other dance so far, and she is not happy doing it with _Gee-Tar_, of all people. True, it's better than Mouthpiece, but anyone who isn't Ice, well—just isn't who she wants.

Gee-Tar doesn't look like he's any happier than she is. "So, uh, ya havin' fun?" he asks, a feeble smile on his square face.

In this case, Velma decides, honesty is not always the best policy. "Sure," she manages. And she is. Just not with him. "You?"

Gee-Tar mutters an affirmative that is about as convincing as hers before clearing his throat. "Say, uh—how long was it 'fore Ice asked ya to be his girl?"

Velma stares. "A couple dates. But he didn't really _ask_, I just knew. Why?"

"I was wonderin' when I should ask Clarice again," the tall Jet mumbles. "I know she said she don't like me as more'n a friend, but I been thinkin' she's changed her mind, maybe." He brightens just a bit. "She danced with me a coupla times tonight, y'know."

"Um," says Velma, quite articulately, because even if Clarice is leading him on a little, Gee-Tar really is dense. "But—even if she's bein' friendly an' dancin' with ya, ain't there still Big Deal to think about? They're pretty cozy, y'know."

Gee-Tar's shoulders sag. "Right."

"Well," says Velma tactfully, "maybe just wait. I bet it'll sort itself out eventually."

Gee-Tar looks slightly happier. "Gee, thanks, Velma."

"Don't mention it," she says before lapsing back into silence. What do you say to someone like this? Velma wonders. Someone so completely clueless? She is very relieved when Glad Hand waves his arms around, evidently directing them into another attempt at the get-together dance. "Anyway, thanks."

Gee-Tar, dropping his hands from her waist, shrugs, green eyes already darting around the room in search of Clarice. "Anytime, Velma."

As she moves into the circle, Velma sighs. He is so utterly oblivious that she would feel sorry for him if Clarice hadn't told her all about Gee-Tar and his habits of singing under the fire escape and skulking around her dates with Big Deal. Some people, Velma supposes, eyes widening as Mouthpiece waves excitedly across the circle at her, just don't get it.

But then the whistle blows, and this time, Velma is right where she should be, in the most comfortable place in the world—directly across from Ice. A slow smile spreads across his face as he reaches for her.

"Missed ya," he says as he takes her hand and whirls her around.

Velma can't help the smile that mirrors his as she looks up at him. "Me, too." She's just about to elaborate on this when Ice, spinning her again, stops still, his gaze caught by something else just behind her. Velma turns, heart already sinking.

She can't quite tell what's going on; it looks like Riff and Tony are facing off with Bernardo, but this time, there's a dark-haired girl in a white dress in the middle of it. Ice, seeing probably more than she does from his height, withdraws his hand from hers and immediately hurries over to back his best friends up. He doesn't even look back.

It's as easy as that. Suddenly, they are disconnected and Ice is somewhere else where she can't follow. Velma swallows her disappointment and watches him go, wishing he wouldn't, even though she knows he has to. He's been gone for only a few seconds, but still—she misses him already.

Velma takes a deep, deep breath, holds it for a moment, then releases it and heads over to Graziella, whose tapping foot indicates that she is none too happy with the situation, either. "I hate it when they do this," she murmurs to her best friend. "Spoilin' everyone's good time."

Graziella rolls her eyes. "Yeah, me too." She shrugs. "But ya get used to it."

Before Velma can tell her best friend that no, she doesn't think she ever will, Glad Hand rushes over. "Please, boys!" he pleads. "Everything was going so well—now come on, we're all here to have a good time!"

Speak for yourself, thinks Velma with a sigh. _Some_ of us are here to watch their boyfriends throw down over a piece of street and some girl no one knows at all.

And then a whistle pierces the air, and Velma, turning around, sees Officer Krupke approaching, thwacking his nightstick against his palm. Both Jets and the Sharks understand this as their cue to scatter—A-Rab and Baby John taking it upon themselves to distract Glad Hand and Krupke—and Velma moves back with Graziella, eyes fixed on Riff and Ice's tense, unhappy faces as they discuss this new development.

"What's the hell's goin' on, anyway?" Graziella wonders, lips drooping in a petulant frown. All around them, couples are dancing, but the mood has changed. No one is carefree and happy anymore, and no one is letting the gang leaders out of sight.

Velma shakes her head. "I wish I knew. I guess it's somethin' to do with Tony an' that girl he was dancin' with, maybe? She's kinda pretty, for a PR," she adds critically, as a babyfaced Shark leads the girl in the white dress away. And not like the other Shark girls, she leaves unsaid. But it's true. This girl's brown eyes are wide and open and so trusting that Velma feels almost guilty. Innocence like that won't last long around here.

Graziella sniffs. "_I_ don't know about that. Anyway, they better hurry up. I wanna _dance_."

Velma barely hears this as she catches sight of a familiar figure exiting the gym. "Wait, where's Tony goin'?"

Graziella's mouth drops open. "He's—damn, he's leavin'? He just got here!"

Velma, a little surprised to hear the deeply offended note in her best friend's voice, glances at her, and Graziella reddens.

"It ain't that I care," she says by way of explanation. "But if somethin's goin' down, Riff's gonna want him. They're best buddies."

Velma, though not entirely convinced, nods, and turns back to look at Riff and Ice, who have now paired up with the Shark leader and his lieutenant to talk under Officer Krupke's watchful gaze. If she didn't know better, Velma thinks, narrowing her eyes, she would think they were all buddy-buddy. Friendly. They certainly don't _look_ like rivals on the opposite sides of a gang war.

"What're they talkin' about, d'ya think?" she asks Graziella, eyes on Ice.

The redhead gives Velma a blank look. "Well, he's challengin' the PRs, ain't he?"

Velma rolls her eyes. "No, Graz, I mean Ice and the other one."

Graziella glances at them, arching one eyebrow. "Got me. Don't seem like they'd have much to say."

"Yeah," says Velma, still watching Ice with the Shark lieutenant. His back is toward her, but she can glimpse the faint lines of tension just underneath his jacket and in the stiffness of his stance. Signs that no one else would see. "That's why I wanna know."

"Ice," Riff calls abruptly as Bernardo moves away. Ice heads back over to Riff; Action joins them as they walk off just beyond the two girls. "Doc's at midnight. Spread the word."

Ice claps his shoulder. "Right, Daddy-O."

Velma and Graziella watch them go.

"War-council, huh," Velma grumbles, feeling the knot of tension in her stomach release. Now that she knows nothing is going to happen right away, she can afford to let herself be a little annoyed. "We got plans, but they gotta have their _war-council_."

"Boys," sighs Graziella, as they move off after the Jets. "Can't live with 'em."

"And ya can't live without 'em," finishes Velma, softening a bit as she follows Ice's tall form with her eyes. She smiles. "'Specially not mine."

Graziella smirks. "And mine, don'tcha forget." She sighs. "Riff's the _most_."

Velma glances over, amused. "The most what?"

Her best friend shrugs, the picture of unconcern. "Just the _most_."

Velma grins. "Yeah? Well, Ice's that, times ten."

Graziella wrinkles her nose. "That don't make any sense."

"Makes just as much sense as what you said," Velma teases.

The redhead rolls her eyes. "Oh, you. C'mon," she says, quickening her stride, "let's go find out what's up."

"Graz, wait," Velma protests, stopping short. She doesn't exactly think it's a good idea to go pester the boys right now, not when they're looking so wound-up. She glances around for a distraction and finds one about ten feet behind them. "Don't ya think we oughta go get Gee-Tar offa Clarice first?"

Graziella pouts. "But I—"

"Look how miserable she is," Velma hints. And Clarice, having presumably already made up with Big Deal before being paired up with Gee-Tar by Glad Hand's whistle, does, in fact, look utterly miserable, dancing as far away from Gee-Tar and his damp underarms as possible. Big Deal isn't too far behind them, dancing with a hanger-on Velma vaguely recognizes as Julie and giving Gee-Tar the evil eye as often as he can.

Graziella fidgets. "But Vel—"

"Remember that time Riff an' Tony sneaked outta the dance to TP the stationhouse an' ya got stuck dancin' with Tiger?" Velma reminds her. "An' Clarice made up that story about needin' you to fix her garters? Tiger let ya go real quick." When Graziella still doesn't look convinced, she adds, "'Sides, ain't it one-a those Jet girl things ya keep tellin' me about? Never lettin' one-a us get stuck with one-a the creeps?"

Silence.

Finally, after a minute, Graziella releases a gusty sigh and wrinkles her nose. "Oh, _fine_," she huffs. "But just 'cause she did it for me an' she's a Jet's girl, okay? I wouldn' do it for nobody else."

Velma smiles in relief. "Okay."

Once Graziella makes up her mind to do something, she is unstoppable, and now is no different. Velma trails along as the redhead turns on her heel and marches her way over to Clarice and Gee-Tar; the former smiles in relief, the latter frowns in confusion. "Graziella," he says. "What's up?"

"Hi," Graziella says in a tone of utter boredom. "I got an earring stuck in my bra an' I need Clarice to get it out for me. Mind takin' your mitts offa her?"

Velma claps a hand over her mouth; both she and Clarice are hard-pressed not to burst out laughing. Gee-Tar's face has just about turned purple.

"Uh—sure," he manages, green eyes darting rapidly from barely-composed Clarice to a smug Graziella, who just smirks. "I—yeah, go ahead, take your time."

Clarice, lips twitching, wastes no time in detaching herself from the Jet. "_Graziella_!" she practically shrieks as soon as they are out of earshot. "How'd ya—I mean, not that I _mind_, but—your _bra_—"

Graziella cackles, and fingers one of the two earrings that are still very much attached to her ears. "Ya just gotta know how to talk to 'em, is all."

"Well, thanks," Clarice says fervently. Twisting around, she indicates a dark patch on the back of her dress. "That's from his _hand_."

Velma winces. "That's disgustin'." In a quieter voice she adds, "You an' Big Deal work things out?"

Clarice smirks, and Velma notices with a start that she barely has any lipstick left on her mouth. "Oh, we worked things out, all right."

"That's good," Graziella says, clearly not paying any attention as she cranes her head for one last look around the gym before they reach the hall. "Anyway, whaddaya think that was that all about?"

Once in the safety of the restroom, the three girls linger, trying to figure out just what is going on with the Jets and the Sharks. Graziella tosses out anything from a kidnapping plot to a secret plan Riff and Tony might be working on, while Clarice interjects occasionally with more sensible explanations. Velma, listening, is reminded of how much she likes Clarice: in fact, if Velma hadn't met Graziella first, she and the brunette might have become best friends. Clarice is smart, and confident, and even if she does have a little too much fun making Big Deal jealous, Velma knows her friend loves him more than anything.

In any case, supposes Velma, they're _good_ friends, which is nice. Besides, Graziella is a great best friend—fun, loyal, always up for anything. And, thinks Velma with a smile, remembering the early days of their friendship, not a bad matchmaker, either.

After about ten minutes, Clarice judges it safe enough to venture out again. As soon as they reenter the gym, Velma's eyes are drawn to a tall figure, ranging restlessly over on the far side of the gym near a few other Jets. Graziella gives her best friend a knowing smirk.

"C'mon," she says, "let's go."

Velma doesn't need any encouragement. She feels like it's been ages since she's seen Ice, and her feet automatically follow Graziella and Clarice as they make their way to the cluster of Jets. Graziella immediately latches on to Riff, but Clarice hangs back for a minute and glances at Velma as Ice spots them and approaches.

"Thanks for before, Vel."

Velma returns the brunette's smile. "You'da done the same for me." And it's true. The Jets go on and on about the gang being like family, but what they always forget is that the same goes for their girls, too. They look out for each other, no matter what.

Clarice grins. "Catch on quick, don't ya? See ya later," she whispers, and darts off, presumably to find Big Deal, just as Ice reaches them.

Ice, sliding his arm around Velma, doesn't even seem to notice the exchange. "There ya are," he says, directing a glare to the Shark side of the room. "I was wonderin' if somethin'd happened."

"Nah, was just savin' Clarice," Velma explains. She is eager to ask about the Riff and Tony and the Sharks, but she keeps her mouth shut—she has a feeling now is probably not the best time. Instead, following his glance, she half-grins. "Y'know, that worked out real well, before, with those PRs."

"What, that get-together dance crap?" Ice asks with a snort. He shrugs, still glowering at the Shark side of the room. "Blame Glad Hand."

Velma looks sideways at her boyfriend. Ice, she thinks, reaching up to give him a long and lingering kiss, needs some cheering up. And Velma knows just the girl to do it. "Thanks for savin' me from the Spic, Daddy-O," she breathes. "It was real swell of ya."

Ice shakes his head. Velma, lips still brushing his, feels him smile at last and settle his hands on her waist. "Anytime ya need it, Vee."

Velma giggles. "Thanks. Dance?"

Ice shifts his weight. "Actually…" He glances at the clock that is just visible from the hall. "We got some time before I gotta get over to Doc's for that war-council. Ya wanna take a walk?"

Velma can't help the smile that comes over her face. This is one of the many times she's glad her boyfriend knows her so well, because as much as she loves to dance, what she really feels like is being alone with Ice. Very, very alone. "Sure."

Ice tugs at her hand to lead her out of the gym. "C'mon, then."

And just like that, they leave. Velma can't help but stare up at him in wonder. Most of the time, she has to compete with the Jets for his time, but tonight, it's really that easy, that simple. He's hers. At least until midnight.

An hour isn't much, thinks Velma with the philosophical shrug of every girl who has ever had to wait and watch and worry for the boy she loves, but she'll take what she can get.


	6. and the night illuminated the night

Disclaimer: Maybe if I ever get rich enough, I will own WSS. Until then, I will have to be content with writing fanfiction. -_-; Also, cameo appearance by a character created by **LCV Productions**.

Note: This includes one of the first-ever scenes I wrote for this fic, almost a year ago. Amazing how time flies, isn't it?

For: **HedgehogQuill** and **Megfly**. They know why. :)

Hope you enjoy!

—viennacantabile

* * *

fell the angels

six : and the night illuminated the night

.

Long ago, in April it was, Grady had taken of him a mental photograph, an intense, physical picture, emphatic as a cut-out on white paper: alone, often isolated by midnight, she let it emerge, an intoxicating symbol that set her blood to whispering…

—Truman Capote, Summer Crossing

.

The wind is rushing after us, and the clouds are flying after us, and the moon is plunging after us, and the whole wild night is in pursuit of us; but, so far we are pursued by nothing else.

—Charles Dickens, A Tale of Two Cities

.

They don't make it a block from the gym before Ice tugs her out of the well-lit street and into a darkened doorway and kisses her. Velma, arms winding around his neck, sighs. Her back is against the brick wall and his hands are running all over her dress and he might have a lot on his mind, she thinks hazily, but he sure doesn't kiss like it at all.

"If you're tryin' to distract me," she breathes, barely able to concentrate on her words as his mouth moves to the hollow between shoulder and neck, "you're doin' a good job."

She can feel him grin. "Oh, there's somethin' in it for both of us," he assures her, and the murmur of his voice against her skin makes her dizzy. It just isn't fair, Velma thinks, inhaling as he works his way back up to her lips, that he can do this to her so easily. It's enough to make her forget her own name, let alone the finer points of a gang challenge and war-council that may or may not have happened already. But as always, Velma lets herself give in. She loves this boy, intense and inscrutable as he is, and she is willing to wait for him to tell her, as he always does, the truth. Besides, she thinks, as a delicious shiver runs through her body at his touch, he's right: there is something in this diversion for both of them.

They've only just stopped for air when a bright light invades the doorway.

"Hey, you!" barks a deep voice as Ice takes a careful step back. "Get—oh, hi, Velma."

Velma shades her eyes in surprise. She can barely make the figure out, but it sounds like— "Officer Goddard?"

To her relief, Minnie's father redirects the flashlight beam away and gives a feeble cough, clearly embarrassed to be catching his good friend's daughter and her boyfriend together. "I, um—thought there was some hanky-panky goin' on. Been a lotta that tonight. I'm on Purity Patrol," he explains seriously, adjusting his cap.

"Oh, no," Velma is quick to assure him. To her right, she hears Ice snort. Velma elbows him—now is definitely not the time. "We were just, um—talkin'."

Officer Goddard shifts his weight fom side to side. "Talkin'."

"Yeah," Velma says sunnily. "Talkin'. About the dance. It was fun," she adds with a bright smile.

"Oh," says Officer Goddard, looking slightly reassured. "Well, that's good. That your boyfriend?" he asks, waving his flashlight around.

Ice takes a slow step forward into the light. "Yeah, that's me. Ice," he adds with a nod, leaning against the brick wall.

Officer Goddard, a skeptical frown on his face, inspects him for a full minute. Velma, glancing over, bites back a giggle. "Ice," she hisses, "your mouth."

Ice looks confused for a moment. Then his eyes widen and with a cough, he reaches up with a casual hand to cover the lipstick smudged there.

"Hmm," says Minnie's father, still eyeing Ice with suspicion. "I remember. Y'know, Joe's told me a lot about you." Velma doesn't know who he's talking about at first, until she remembers her father mentioning that that, faced with 'Johannes,' George Goddard had turned Dr. Andersen's given name into the very American-sounding 'Joe', complete with the hard J. "You're one-a those _Jets_."

Ice nods, and Velma winces. Ice is, sure, but so is—

"Minnie still at the dance?" Officer Goddard demands, puffing himself up. "I don't trust that joker she's with."

"Last time I checked," Velma confirms, not mentioning she'd heard something about going out for ice cream. "But don't worry, Officer Goddard, Baby John's a good kid. Really."

"Sure he is," mutters Officer Goddard, before raising his voice. "You two stay outta trouble, okay?" he says sternly. "I don't wanna have to explain to Joe how you got yourself mugged."

Velma just smiles. "A-course not, Officer Goddard. I'm goin' home soon, don't worry."

Minnie's father nods, gives one last skeptical look to Ice, and moves off, taking the circle of light with him. The street subsides back into shadow.

After the flashlight's beam disappears, Ice huffs. "As if I'd _let_ ya get mugged," he grumbles, clearly offended. "What's he think I am?"

"A Jet," Velma informs him, lips twitching. "One-a the lousiest, scummiest gang-members around."

"So don't that mean I can take care-a ya all by my big bad self?" says a very unamused Ice.

"It should, yeah," agrees Velma with a giggle, "but you know cops ain't long on logic. An' Minnie's dad's actually better'n most."

Ice rolls his eyes. "I'll say. Anyway, I don't like his timin'." He makes as if to kiss her again, but Velma ducks back and puts a hand on his chest.

"Not now," she laughs. Now that her head has cleared a bit, she remembers that there are a few things she wants to iron out first. "Wait 'til later."

"But, Vee," Ice protests, reaching for her waist, "we got—" He gives his watch a cursory glance, but its face is obscured by darkness. Velma stifles a grin as Ice blinks, and forges on. "Anyway, we got time. Why don't we pick up where we left off 'fore Goddard came around?"

Velma dimples. "Speakin'-a Goddard, he might come back. You don't want him tellin' my dad about any _hanky-panky_, do ya?"

Ice makes a face. "'Course not. But that don't mean we gotta wait 'til—"

"C'mon, honey," Velma teases. "Don'tcha need a clear mind for the war council later?"

Ice groans. "Yeah, well, this ain't exactly helpin', I can tell ya that."

"Later," Velma promises. It's not that she doesn't _want_ to—she does, very much—but she knows if they get to making out again, the forty-five minutes or so they have left will go by in a quarter of the time, and for now, Velma wants to enjoy just being with him. She giggles. "'Sides, a little anticipation's good for ya."

Ice sighs, defeated. "Well," he says, draping an arm around her shoulders, "whaddaya wanna do, then?"

Velma shrugs. "I don't care. Let's get outta here, though." She grins. "I don't much wanna get caught by the Purity Patrol again."

Ice snorts. "Yeah, me neither. Where d'ya wanna go?"

Velma considers this. The Park is too far for the time they have left, and she's not wasting time having him walk her home; he'd just have to leave earlier to get back. She does know one place, though, that isn't too far from Doc's. "The playground?"

Ice guides her out of the doorway and drops a kiss on her forehead. "Anywhere's fine with me."

Velma smiles to herself. Now, as always, she remembers how lucky she is. "C'mon," she invites, holding her hand out for his. "Let's go."

.

As they walk through the warm humid streets, Velma breathes in the close summer air and wonders what the future will bring. On nights like these their lives seem to stretch out golden and bright in front of them, a long stream of evenings spent glimpsing endless opportunity. They are young, and in love, and at this moment it seems like nothing can brush their reality. Most of all, it seems impossible that they will not always go on as they are now, because out here, they're untouchable.

Velma doesn't want this summer to end. She's never been happier than she is now, and with the fall will come questions that are harder to answer now that she has someone to hold on to. Ice has just finished school, and this is her last year, now. In another June, she will graduate. And after—

She glances at Ice. After, she doesn't know. But she knows it's not just her life to consider anymore.

Ice, as though sensing her gaze, inclines his head and smiles down at her. "Penny?"

Velma giggles. "What, my thoughts're only worth that much?"

Ice grins. "Well, I could pay ya other ways, too, but I thought ya wanted to wait 'til later."

"Don't tempt me," Velma says with a sigh. Casting around for another subject to distract him, she furrows her brow. "Hey," she says slowly, "what happened at the dance, anyway?"

Ice's face doesn't change, but Velma can tell he is not unaffected by the question. "What, with Tony?"

"Yeah," nods Velma, glad that he is not trying to hide the obvious. "An' you an' the Sharks."

Ice sighs. "Honest? I don't really know. Riff said he was gonna get Tony to show so's he could have backup for the challenge, and yeah, Tony showed up, but I don't think it did much good. 'Specially not with him dancin' with that girl, an' all. Got the PRs mad. Don't know what he was thinkin'; he's too smart to pull that kinda dumb joke." He shrugs. "Don't really matter, though, Riff got to Bernardo an' we're havin' the war-council at midnight. 'S all that counts."

"Oh," says Velma, absorbing this. "Tony comin' to that, too?"

"I don't know," Ice repeats with another sigh. "Hell, I don't know why Tony does half the things he does anymore. Today was the first time I've seen him in a week. An' that's just 'cause he works at Doc's. He ain't been what'd I'd call really _with_ the gang in a month."

Velma slides her free arm around Ice. "I'm sorry," she says, and she means it. She doesn't know Tony as well as some of the other Jets, but Ice has told her enough about the former Jet leader to know that he's a very, very good friend in a pinch and that Ice, as much as he hates to admit it, misses him.

Ice waves her off. "Nah, it ain't a big deal. Worse for Riff than me, really." He hesitates. "It's just—funny, is all. Without him around."

Velma nods, and settles deeper into his side as they continue walking. She doesn't say anything, and neither does he, but it's a comfortable, friendly quiet that says everything that they don't. And up near a streetlight, a few tiny glowing pinpricks are floating, dotting the air. Velma blinks. "Ice," she murmurs, pointing up into the night, "look. Fireflies."

"Huh," he says, shading his eyes against the light. "Would ya look at that."

"I've only ever seen 'em once before," she confides, glancing up at him. "When I was six, maybe. You?"

Ice takes his time answering, his gaze fastened on the dancing bits of light. "First time."

"Pretty, ain't they?" asks Velma, watching the fireflies trace a golden arc against the velvet night sky.

Ice finally turns back to look at her and smiles. "Yeah," he says, eyes soft. "They are."

.

"Hey," Velma says a few blocks later, "we're almost to the playground."

"Are we," Ice says, resting his arm unconcernedly over her shoulders.

Velma glances at him. "Say, Ice," she says, frowning. She has been thinking this over and Velma figures she might as well find out now. "What were you'n the PR talkin' about, anyway? Not the leader, but the other one."

"Pepe?" he asks.

"Yeah," she says, dimpling up at him. "Looked pretty cozy over there."

Ice smiles a little. "Might as well ask what Baby John said to Krupke."

Velma's lips twitch at the thought. "What _did_ he say?"

Ice gives a low chuckle and grins down at her. "Kid _said_ he asked Krupke how many licks it takes to get to the center of a Tootsie Roll Pop."

Velma claps her hand over her mouth to cover her laughter. "He _would_!"

"Yep," says Ice, looking amused. "An' the way he told it, Krupke was actually tryin' to figure it out."

"Wouldn't be surprised at all," Velma agrees, tickled by the mental image. After a few minutes of content silence, though, she tries again. "Yeah, but what'd _Pepe_ say?"

"Nothin'," Ice says with an easy half-smile and a squeeze to her shoulder. "Ain't important, Vee."

"No, really," she persists, because Velma can tell from his too-casual voice that it whatever it was, it wasn't just nothing. "Tell me."

He pauses, then snorts. "Well, see, I asked him how the tamale was over on his side-a town."

Velma giggles. "No, you didn't!"

"I did," says Ice, his face completely serious. "Felt like tamale the other day, been lookin' for some good ones. Thought he might know where to get some."

"What'd he say?" she asks, eyes wide. His poker face is so good she's not sure whether to believe him or not.

Ice grins. "Told me sure, he'd take me to get some next week."

Velma laughs, but it doesn't last long. "What'd he really say, Ice?" she presses again. "C'mon, you can tell me."

Ice keeps his gaze forward. "Why d'ya wanna know so much?"

"'Cause," she says seriously, taking him by the arm, "you're comin' over late tonight 'cause-a things you boys do an' say to each other, an' I wanna know what kinda thing it is that's so important it can't wait 'til tomorrow."

Ice shrugs. "It _ain't_ important, Vee."

"'Course it is," Velma says quietly. "Everything's important, Ice. To me, anyway."

Ice glances at her and sighs. "I know." He stands indecisive for a moment before putting his arm around her and beginning to walk again. "He wanted to know why us _Americanos_ couldn't just stick to our girls."

Velma gazes up at him; he's staring straight ahead, mouth in a flat line. "What'd you say?"

Ice gives her a half-smile. "I said I didn't know about Tony, but I was fine with that."

"And?"

Ice sighs. "Then he said they knew exactly what Tony wanted with their girl, and he wasn't going to get it." He snorts, shaking his head. "Only he didn't exactly say it like that."

"Oh," says Velma, absorbing this. She settles into his arm and sighs. "Tony ain't like that." Tony's a nice guy, she thinks, and even though she wouldn't have thought he'd fall for a _Puerto Rican_—especially when the girl in question is probably already with one of the gang members his buddies are tangling with—Velma knows he's not the kind of guy to pick up and drop a girl, just like that. Tony is the kind of guy who cares.

"I know," Ice says quietly, squeezing her shoulder. "But they don't know that, an' anyway, Tony shoulda known better." He sighs, and Velma realizes again that no matter what he says, Ice really does miss his friend. "Like I said, I don't know why he's been actin' so weird. First droppin' us like hot potatoes, an' now goin' after the one girl he's never gonna get in a million years. It ain't like him."

"He's never been stuck on one girl before, has he?" Velma asks. Her mouth quirks up. "The girls said he's always had one if he wanted, but that he's never been what they'd call dead gone on one before."

Ice half-smiles. "They're right. Tony, he's never been real serious about a dame before." Then he frowns. "Which is why this whole thing worries me."

Velma glances at him. "Why? Don't ya think he can get her? Sure, she's a PR, but Tony's a handsome guy, y'know," she teases. "Not my type, a-course, but I know the girls think he's real cute."

Normally, Ice would let her know he's not happy about his girlfriend calling his buddy handsome, but tonight he just sighs. "That's just it. If it were just her, sure he could. But this ain't just any girl. Even any PR girl." He pauses. "It's Bernardo's sister."

Velma glances at him, startled. "But aint Bernardo—"

"The PR captain," Ice confirms, frowning.

Velma inhales sharply. "Oh."

"Yeah," Ice mutters. "Tony sure can pick 'em."

"She was pretty," Velma offers. She doesn't know what else to say. She's never had a friend change so much in so little time, let alone one as close as Tony was to Ice. What would help? she wonders.

"I didn't notice," Ice shrugs, eyes clouded, and Velma smiles.

"Enough about them," she says, lifting his hand up and pressing her lips to it as they reach the playground. Ice might be worried about Tony, and Velma might not know how to help, but what she _can_ do is be here, with him, and let him know that nothing is ever going to break _them_ like that, no matter what is up against them. And as Ice swings the gate open for her, she glances up at him. No one knows what the future holds, but they have time right here, right now, and she is not going to waste it.

.

Velma has been perched and Ice has been leaning on the monkey bars, talking (and kissing, despite her best efforts) for the last fifteen minutes when Ice checks his watch. He is smooth and careful about it, angling his arm behind her shoulder, but Velma, eyes attuned to his every movement, still sees him. Well, this is silly, she thinks, exasperated and a little bit hurt. Even when they're alone they can't get away from the Jets.

"So what time is it?" she asks pointedly.

Ice, catching her very unamused gaze, shuffles his feet. "Eleven-thirty. We got time," he adds quickly.

Velma arches one eyebrow. "So why ya married to your watch, then?"

Ice reaches apologetically for her, and she allows him to pull her closer. "Sorry, Vee. Just don't wanna be late, is all."

Velma stares up at him. Even if she's resolved not to waste their time together, she realizes, it won't matter if he's thinking ahead to the war-council, anyway. And for once, she doesn't feel like shutting her mouth and letting him trot along after Riff like a little boy. "Ya really gotta go to that thing tonight?"

Ice nods, pale eyes intense. "Y'know I do, Vee."

Velma sighs at this answer she does not want to hear. But maybe, she thinks, there is a way to persuade him. "Don't you wanna just come to my place?" she asks, fingertips idly tracing circles on his shirt-front. "We could get real comfortable…"

Ice stares at her, eyes hazing over, and for a minute she thinks maybe he will. Then his gaze refocuses, and he shakes his head regretfully. "Damn if that don't sound good. But I gotta be there, Vee," he reiterates, drawing her closer. "I'll come by straight after, though."

Velma pulls away, piqued. Getting up, she plants her hands on her hips. "Well, maybe I'll just lock my window tonight. Leave you out on the fire escape all night long. How'd ya like that, honey?"

Ice raises a skeptical eyebrow. "Like ya would, Vee."

Backing up to the nearby see-saw, Velma settles herself sideways on its seat and tucks her skirt around her. "Baby," she breathes up at him, gaze running seductively over him, "don't tempt me."

Grinning, Ice moves over to the other side and puts one foot down on it. Velma shrieks as her end of the see-saw rises up into the air. "_Ice!_" she yelps, grabbing the handle, "let me down, right now!"

Velma doesn't know if it's intentional, but somehow he's startled all the anger out of her, and now she is laughing and can't stop. Ice, still smirking up at her, plunks himself down to sit on the seat.

"Kinda stuck, ain't ya?" he observes with a self-satisfied grin, crossing his arms.

Velma can't hold back her giggles, even as she measures the distance between the ground and her dangling heels and realizes he's right: Ice has her trapped, at least if she doesn't want to ruin her favorite pair of shoes.

"Let me down," she insists with a helpless laugh.

His gaze turns serious. "So long's ya say ya won't worry, Vee."

"I ain't worried," she scoffs. He just looks at her with his pale steady eyes until she has to bite her lip. "Fine," she admits after a moment, with a sigh. "So I worry, sometimes. Ya can't blame me, can ya?"

"No," says Ice quietly. "But that don't mean I want ya to do it."

Velma gazes at him. "If it were me—"

The corner of Ice's mouth twitches so immediately it's as if he can't help it. "Runnin' around bein' a Jet in those fancy shoes?"

Velma is not amused. "Ice."

The half-smile fades, to be replaced by a restless frown. "I'd worry, yeah," sighs Ice, glancing around. "Don't think I ain't thankin' my lucky stars it ain't."

"Then you know why I have to," says Velma. It isn't a question.

Ice gets to his feet, holding his end of the seesaw down as he removes his weight. Then he eases her down as lightly as if she's a feather floating to the ground, controlling the descent of the seesaw so that she doesn't feel the slightest bump as her feet touch the pavement. His gaze never leaves hers.

"Yeah," he says softly, coming over and holding out his hand. "Just like you know why _I_ have to."

Velma bites her lip. Of course she knows why Ice has to go. This is what she signed up for when she first went on that date with a Jet, and what she has gone along with in the year since. But it doesn't mean she likes it.

So instead she takes his hand and pulls him across the playground to where the swings make their shadows over the gray pavement. Velma positions Ice behind a swing and stands on the other side, hands gripping the cold hard links of the chains. She gazes at him for a long, long moment, blue eyes meeting blue. There are so many things she wants to say right now.

But tonight, like every other night, she keeps silent. Now is not the time.

Velma turns, lowers herself on the swing, twists her head to look up at him. "Push me," she says, and faces forward again.

She feels his hands come up to grip her waist, pull her back—_push_—and she is flying, the humid air whipping over her bare skin. Tonight the constellations are out in full force and brilliance, and Velma watches the gleaming points of light go past in a blur and wonders how many others like them are out under the heavens tonight. There are so many stars, so many lovers. One for each of them? Maybe. At the top of her flight she feels like she's almost near enough to touch them, grasp them in her hands and make wishes on fistfuls of stars. That's enough, isn't it? If you just have enough failsafes, it has to work. That makes sense. Everything makes sense up here.

And then gravity reaches for her and she is falling back to earth, glowing pinpricks rushing forward past her and now Velma can see the sharp edges of buildings all around her and the gritty reality of West Side near midnight. She is just about to collide with this concrete jungle when she feels firm hands on her back and she is launched again into the clear air of night sky.

It's a swooping, dizzying rush, a near-endless loop, and Velma isn't quite sure how long this flight into fantasy lasts. She knows when it ends, though, and that is all too soon. Every time she rises into the night it is lower and lower, that calm, steady push on her back softer. Ice is bringing her slowly but surely to a stop, and when at last Velma is able to twist the chains of her swing and and turn to face him, thread her legs through his and lock her ankles around them, he leans forward and kisses her forehead.

"It's about that time," he says.

Velma, if she were smarter, wouldn't even think about it. She would get up and walk away and never come back for this intense, incredible, _impossible_ boy, because everything is converging and she doesn't know how but she does know this can't last. Something has to give, and Velma, if she were smarter, wouldn't be around for when it does.

But she is in far too deep for that, and so Velma gets up, smoothes her dress, runs her hands over her hair, and takes a deep breath.

"C'mon," she says, avoiding his eyes, "let's go."

.

She can't help but try one last time as they reach the street. Turn left, and they will go to Doc's. Turn right…hers.

"My place?" Velma invites, hoping against hope that Ice will come with her and forget about this silly war-council business.

But he doesn't, just kisses her and murmurs "later" into her skin. And to be honest, this—the loyalty to his buddies, not the willingness to get into a fight over a little piece of street—is one of the reasons she loves him, and why he wouldn't be _Ice_ if he'd said yes. He is someone the Jets can count on, always. And she knows it is the same for her.

Even so—she bites her lip and swallows her disappointment. "Later is a long time."

Ice slides his arm around her, a tacit apology for taking, as ever, the left turn. "I'll be there," he assures her, "just wait."

Velma sighs. And that's the kicker. "You know I always do."

.

Velma is just putting her lipstick and mirror back into her purse when Ice stops and sounds a quick whistle. She glances at him, confused. It's not until she hears an answering trio of notes and Ice resumes walking that she remembers. Right. There are other people out there tonight, and they are all heading for the same place.

It's Riff and Graziella. "Hey, Vel," calls the redhead with a smirk, wedged into Riff's side. "Doin' all right?"

Velma answers with a smile of her own. "Not too shabby, thanks." The boys are saying something about Doc's, but she and Graziella have better things to discuss. "Riff tell ya about what went down?"

Her best friend shrugs. "Sorta," she sniffs, then sticks out her tongue with a self-satisfied grin. "You'll have to fill me in later, we was too busy doin' somethin' _else_."

Velma laughs. "Sure thing," she promises. She lowers her voice. "How much time we got left, anyway?"

"Not enough," Graziella grouses. "I swear, I am this close to just dumpin' his—oh, hi, Riffy-poo," the redhead coos as Riff, apparently done talking to Ice, gives her hip a squeeze.

"What's that, baby?" he grins.

"Just sayin' how great ya are, Daddy-O," Graziella purrs, before pulling his face down and kissing him to distraction.

Velma, still watching, giggles and turns back to a very embarrassed Ice, whose ears are faintly red.

"Y'know, that ain't such a bad idea," he manages, pulling her to walk ahead of the couple.

Velma smirks. "We're almost to Doc's."

Ice sighs in defeat. "Or we could just walk. An' wait til' later."

Velma leans contentedly into his side. "Trust me, honey," she promises, "I'll make it worth your while."

Ice grins down at her. "Now that _is_ somethin' worth waitin' for."

Velma presses a kiss to his shoulder. She isn't sure exactly how much farther it is to Doc's, but she does know she doesn't want this time of the night to end. Once they meet up with the others, Ice will be a Jet once more, and Velma, as all the Jets' girls do, will have to stand by and wait for her turn. Even if that's the last thing she feels like doing.

For now, though, she is happy. And really, decides Velma with a sigh, as Ice keeps his hand solidly on her waist, that's all she can ask for. It isn't as if Ice is like some of the other Jets, treating their girls as easy lays and never talking to them otherwise. She should be content with what she has. Because she is lucky.

"Nice night," she murmurs, smiling up at him, and Ice, eyes focused on the sidewalk ahead of them, grins. Both of them know that he understands exactly what she means.

"Yeah, I—"

But then they hear a scuffle up by Doc's and Velma unwillingly turns her head to see Anybodys pounding Baby John into the pavement. Ice releases an annoyed sigh, and just like that, he lets go of her to break it up.

"C'mon, Anybodys, knock it off," he groans, and Velma, watching him, feels that same twinge of discontent from earlier intrude as she catches up to Ice and deposits her purse in Doc's window. She slides back into the warmth of his body, but their part of the night is clearly over, and it's not the same, not at all.

Graziella and Clarice have told her before that this lingering, this hanging around while the boys take care of their business is all part of being a Jet's girl. She is not to take it personally, because before she knows it, they will be done and the waiting will be over. It happens every time. That's what they say, anyway.

Velma remembers the fireflies dancing in the night around the streetlamp and isn't so sure. Even if they die for it, they can't keep themselves from going toward that light. It's magnetic. A leap into the darkness to reach something so beautiful it hurts. Is it worth it? she wonders. To need something so badly it could break you? Is it worth it, in the end?

But there is no way to know. And all she can do, thinks Velma with a sigh, is jump.


	7. something to believe in

Disclaimer: In my dreams.

Note: Anyone who has ever tried to novelize a musical will know that one of the trickiest parts is converting song to dialogue. For this chapter, especially, I took the approach of trying to preserve the intent behind the song—a sort of reverse engineering so that this could have worked for the basis of the song Bernstein and Sondheim wrote. I hope that explains the choices I made. Also, we've reached the point where, though I'm about 75% done with writing this fic, I don't have every chapter completed. So though I'm going to try my best, updates may or may not be on time every week. As always, feel free to let me know if you have any questions, concerns, or complaints. :)

For: **HedgehogQuill**, who is graduating today, and **Megfly**, who was kind enough to give me incredibly helpful feedback during the writing and revision of this chapter, and whom I would not have been able to write this without.

Proper credit: goes to the article on diegetic songs found on the WSSOnstage website. Very, very useful. Also, Tucker Smith and Carole D'Andrea, whose adorable cuddling during this scene was probably the inspiration for this whole fic.

Hope you enjoy!

—viennacantabile

* * *

fell the angels

seven : something to believe in

.

We're only liars,  
but we're the best.

—Fall Out Boy, "Our Lawyer Made Us Change the Name of This Song So We Wouldn't Get Sued"

.

They've just about reached Doc's when Ice, arm contentedly around Velma, catches sight of a scuffle in front of the store. Jesus, he thinks, rolling his eyes as he lopes off to pry the rank-and-file apart. "Come on, Anybodys, knock it off," he says, hauling her up and shoving her away with an annoyed sigh. He might have known she'd be the one getting into tussles, and with Baby John, no less. She glares back at both him and Velma, who has caught up by now, but there's not exactly much the tomboy can do about it—even if she _were_ a Jet, Ice would still outrank her. Significantly.

"Okay, cats, all present and accounted for?" asks Riff carelessly as he reaches the cluster of Jets in front of Doc's, his arm around Graziella. Action, Tiger, A-Rab, all of them confirm their presence in a loud chorus as Velma dips behind Ice to set her purse in the window. "Hey, I'm really proud-a ya, buddy-boys; ya done good at the dance tonight."

"So where are they?" demands Action, rocketing forward.

"Unwind, Action!" scolds Riff as Velma leans back into Ice's shoulder. He gives her waist a squeeze and she looks up at him, trails her fingers up and down his shirt. Ice takes a deep, slow breath. He's here, he's concentrating, but it is so hard to think about the Jets when the whole night, Velma's been dancing just out of reach, teasing him in that way only she can. _Jesus_, he thinks again, but for an entirely different reason.

"Any sign-a Tony?" asks Riff in a quieter voice. Ice, still making an effort to listen, has to remind himself that when he's with the Jets, it's probably not a good idea to keep thinking about how great his girl looks in that dress. That doesn't stop him, though, from settling his arm around her shoulders where she isn't quite so covered. In response, Velma shifts to slide her own arms around him. That slight pressure makes Ice sympathize, for once, with Action. It's about time they get this war council over and done with so they can get out of here.

Action snorts in disgust, body tense and ready to go. "The invisible man."

A jittery A-Rab pushes through to the front. "Hey, Riff, whaddaya think the Sharks're gonna ask for?"

Riff, as always, has a ready, confident answer: "Mercy."

"Just rubber hoses, maybe, huh?" suggests a less cocksure Snowboy.

But again, Riff shrugs it off. "Relax, little man!"

Graziella, draped on his shoulder, preens. "You tell 'em, Daddy-O."

"I'm ready!" growls Action, and again, Ice has to tear his eyes away from his girl to focus on his gang.

"Easy, cool!" he warns, pointing his finger at the shorter boy. Ice really hopes that Riff will keep him in line during the war council; Action popping and cracking is the last thing they'll need when they're hammering out terms. If they can keep it quick and fast, there'll be less time for something to go wrong and all the more time for what Velma has promised him later.

Velma echoes him, sending an "Oo, ooblee-oo!" at Action. And Ice looks at her. He has no clue what that means or why she'd say it, but _damn_, she's cute.

"Chung-chung!" Action fires back, punching the air.

"Cracko-jacko!" agrees A-Rab.

"Ooblee-oo!" Velma laughs again, and Ice, his hand on her waist, pulls her back against the wall. She smiles at him, and he strokes the bare skin of her shoulder, utterly absorbed. Up close, Ice can't take his eyes off her; damn, he thinks for about the millionth time, he sure is lucky to have a dame like her.

And then Velma turns as Graziella taps her on the shoulder, gestures at Anybodys, and pronounces the tomboy "an American tragedy." Ice, not a little displeased to be interrupted, looks the indignant girl up and down. Not a curve to be seen. Graziella isn't all that far from the truth. Not, he thinks, taking the opportunity to sneak a covert glance downward, like Velma, who is thankfully occupied in helping her best friend shoo the tomboy away. And then in checking her reflection in a mirror—Ice has no idea why, she looks just great to him—and giggling some more. Velma does that a lot when she's around Graziella, Ice has noticed, but he figures it's just girl stuff, which always means he doesn't want to know.

"Hey, now look, when the Sharks come you chicks cut out, huh?" directs Riff. Ice, who doesn't envy him the job of keeping his girl in line, waits skeptically for Graziella's reaction, arm firmly around Velma. He has a hard time believing the redhead will go as easily as all that. She just isn't the type.

Sure enough, Graziella straightens up and aims a taunting look at the Jets. "We might—an' then again, we might not." She's not just telling Riff, she's telling all of them, and Riff is not amused.

"This ain't kid stuff, Graziella," he reminds her in a warning voice.

Graziella just giggles, tapping him on the chin. "I an' Velma ain't kid stuff, neither." She turns to the blonde for confirmation. "Are we, Vel?"

Velma laughs, and Ice is amused and completely distracted by her nonsense word-filled denial, snapping fingers, and swaying hips. Nope, he thinks, contentedly absorbed, definitely not kid stuff. The last "ooh" gets him though, and Ice lifts up his unoccupied hand and half-smiles in baffled derision at the gang. He's got _some_ reputation to live up to, after all.

He gets distracted again, though, when, after one last giggle with Graziella, Velma dimples and slides her arms around him. Damn, Ice thinks again, with a smile that's impossible to help, she's cute. And then Action has to go and ruin it all.

"Aww, what're we poopin' around with dumb broads?"

Velma instantly bridles, and Ice sighs as she draws away from him. Fucking Action, he thinks, always spoiling a guy's peace and quiet.

"I an' Velma ain't dumb!" snaps Graziella, and Ice has to work very hard not to laugh. His girl's not, sure, but Riff's? That's a different story.

"Hey, the bulls!" warns Snowboy from the fence.

Ice's head snaps to the left, then relaxes back against the ledge of Doc's window as he recognizes the occupants of the squad car. Just Krupke and Goddard. Nothing to get worried about. The one is a prize idiot and the other is a jumped-up Purity Patrol do-gooder who only scares Baby John. And Ice is pretty sure that's just because Baby John is so stuck on Goddard's daughter, Minnie. No one with real nerve could give a damn what they think.

"Hey, you!" barks Krupke as the car rolls to a stop in front of the curb. The Jets respond with a nattering chorus of variations on this polite greeting that could be almost orchestrated for its ability to annoy the cops. Which is pretty much true, anyway, thinks an amused Ice as the police officer gets out of the car, seeing how much practice all of them get at this particular art.

"Well, top-a the evenin' to ya, Officer Krupke!" greets Riff in an elaborate show of politeness.

The big man ignores him and moves instead to point at Baby John, who is clutching the window-frame of Doc's store. "You!"

"Who, me, sir?" Baby John asks, sounding a lot less sure of himself than any self-respecting Jet should. Ice eyes him. It's the second time today the cops have singled the kid out—it's like he has a neon 'Me, me, pick on me!' sign on his forehead or something—and Ice wants to see if Baby John can handle it. It might, he thinks, be useful in the future.

"Yeah, you," sneers Krupke, putting his hands on his hips. "Didn't ya hear me?"

Baby John's glance flickers to Ice, who just stares back at him. Sooner or later, the kid is going to have to learn how to deal with the cops on his own and he might as well start with Krupke, the dumbest of the Three Stooges.

"Oh, yes, sir," the kid supplies, turning back to the big man, "well, I got twenty-twenty hearin'!"

A-Rab cackles, and Ice can't deny that he's half-impressed that Baby John came up with a passably good answer. It's a start, anyway. But Krupke's reaction is less favorable. "Then why didn't ya answer me?" he demands.

A-Rab steps in for his best friend. "Oh, his mother told him never to answer back to a cop!" he says in mock-deference, and nimbly scampers away as Krupke lurches forward, pointed finger leading the way.

"You little wise-apple, ya want me to run ya in?" the cop snarls.

A-Rab grins back. "Indeed not. _Sir_," he adds in an insolent, cutting nod to politeness, as Ice slips his arm around Velma's shoulder again. This back-and-forth with the cop is entertaining, sure, but Ice is feeling a little antsy. He can't help but feel that they're wasting their time, though he's really not sure what else they could be doing. As a group, that is. As Velma is so good at reminding him, Ice can think of plenty of other things to do without the Jets.

"I oughta run _all_ youse punks in," grumbles a beady-eyed Krupke, looking around at the Jets, who have him surrounded. "Whaddaya standin' around here for, blockin' the sidewalks?"

Riff, who's taken the opportunity to leave Graziella and saunter over to a more central, authoritative position on the steps of the store, turns to answer him. "Well, you see, sir, we're _afraid_ to go home," he explains with wide eyes, looking to the rest of the Jets for confirmation. "Such a _bad environment!_"

Ice holds Velma tighter, both for Krupke's benefit and for his own, and follows up on Riff's lead. "We don't get no _love_ there!"

Velma, whose fingers have been playing not-so-idly with his coat lapel, takes the cue and buries her face tragically in his shoulder as Snowboy, too, chimes in: "Oh, it's awful!"

"If you don't leave us stay out on the streets all night," puts in Action, sounding younger and more like a kid than Ice has ever heard him, "we liable to turn into a buncha juvenile delinquents!"

The Jets sound their agreement, but even Krupke isn't stupid enough to believe them. "Yes, an' I know youse guys was cookin' up somethin' at the dance tonight," he warns them, "so don't think youse're gonna put nothin' over on me!"

Ice turns to grin at Velma. _Who, us?_ he mouths silently at her. Velma dimples, blue eyes sparkling and moving suggestively to the tie Ice has only now noticed he's been toying with, and mouths back, _Never_. And once again, Ice, has to force himself to tear his eyes away as Officer Goddard leans out of the car window and interrupts them for the second time that evening. "Hey, Sergeant—c'mon, quick, we gotta ten-thirteen!"

Krupke scowls. "Now, go on, get a move on, alla youse," he orders, lumbering back to the car and cramming himself in. "An' don't let me catch none-a youse around here when I get back!"

The Jets sing out their fond farewells as the car moves off into the hot summer night, and Ice salutes his friendly neighborhood peacekeepers with a pistol shaped out of his hand. He doesn't doubt that the feeling is mutual.

Action chases after the car, calling and waving madly. When he gets no response, he stops, a reproachful frown on his face. "You forgot to say g'bye!"

"Ah, them head-busters ain't got no manners," mourns A-Rab with a shrug.

Tiger immediately thwaps him on the head with a rolled-up newspaper. "An' don't let me catch none-a youse around here when I get back!" he thunders, in a more-than-credible imitation of Krupke.

"They treat us like we ain't even humans," agrees Snowboy with a comic sniff.

"Jeez, he was pretty mad, huh?" says Baby John uneasily. And Ice sighs. Back-talking the cops is all very well and good, but it looks like the kid's courage sure didn't last long. Glancing at an amused Velma, he half-smiles, wondering how distracted she really is and how much he can get away with.

"So what happened?" challenges A-Rab with a nonchalant shrug . "A big fat nothin', right?"

"Y—yeah," Baby John concedes, "but—suppose he comes back while us an' the Sharks are havin' the war council?"

"We'll snow 'em some more!" answers Riff easily from Ice's left, swinging forward from the window frame. Ice, his hand now resting in a very comfortable spot on Velma's shoulder, turns his head to watch as Riff commands his gang's attention with practiced flair. "See, them cops—they believe everythin' they read in the papers about us cruddy JDs. So that's what we give 'em—somethin' to _believe_ in!"

Baby John's forehead contracts. "Whaddaya mean, Riff?"

Riff grins. "What, kid, ya need a demo? Well, all right." He inclines his head at Tiger, who takes the cue.

"Hey, you!" bellows the tall Jet, screwing up his face into Krupke's usual befuddled expression and waving his newspaper around like a nightstick.

Riff adopts an innocent expression. "Who, me, Officer Krupke?"

"Yeah, you!" Tiger goes on. "Gimme one good reason for not draggin' ya down to the stationhouse—ya _punk_!"

Riff winks at Baby John. "See, here's where ya give him the ol' sob story. Make up some crap about your druggie ma an' how your dad drinks all the time." Grinning, he glances around at the rest of the Jets. "An' hey—works even better when it's true, huh, buddy-boys?"

As the Jets cackle in rueful agreement, Ice shifts, moving his arm to circle Velma's shoulders. Ice likes to think his old man has nothing to do with how he's grown up, but sometimes he does wonder if he'd have been any different with two parents and a dog and a cute little home life when he was younger. Like Vee. At that thought, Ice moves his hand back to its former position, and Velma reaches up and laces her fingers through his. It doesn't matter, he remembers, reassured by the automatic gesture. He's got all the family he'll ever need, right here in front of him.

"Really?" a wide-eyed Baby John wants to know. "That's all it takes?"

Riff smirks. "Well, sure. Cops—'specially Krupke—they're all just big softies on the inside. Like teddy bears, 'cept twice as fat an' ten times as ugly. Ya give 'em some sniffles outta the baby blues an' tell 'em it's all 'cause ya never got any love as a kid, an' I bet ya anythin' in the world they're gonna say, 'Aww, whatta cute kid. Maybe we oughta try an' _understand_ him.'"

"'S true," puts in Big Deal, nodding knowledgeably and patting Riff's head. "'S amazin' what you can get away with if you're cute enough."

"Like murder?" asks Gee-Tar, with a thoughtful crack of his knuckles.

Big Deal eyes him, considering this. "Well, maybe not you." He smirks, and Ice, watching them, wonders how many times Clarice danced with Gee-Tar tonight. She's a nice girl, and Velma really likes her, but apart from Riff and Tony, Big Deal is the best buddy Ice has, and he wishes, not for the first time, that Clarice wouldn't string the former best friends along. And if he didn't know how she really feels about Big Deal…

"Baby John won't have no problem though," beams Mouthpiece, reaching over to ruffle the younger boy's hair. "I bet Schrank an' Krupke think he's _awful_ cute."

Baby John gives a weak smile. "Gee, thanks, Mouthpiece."

Ice, chuckling along with the rest of the Jets, suddenly becomes very aware from the empty space around his right side that Graziella is tugging Velma away, hissing something about fixing her hair. Ice follows her with both his eyes and a frown, but Velma doesn't turn. So he settles back with a sigh and watches Riff gesture at Tiger, who obligingly jumps back in character as Krupke again.

"That's a touchin' good story," the tall redhead mock-sobs.

Riff flings his arms out with a gleeful shout. "Lemme tell it to the world!"

Tiger again whacks Riff on the head with his newspaper. "Just tell it to the _judge_!"

"The _judge_?" repeats Baby John, eyes huge.

Riff glances at the kid and cackles. "Oh, judges is fun, buddy-boy. They're always on the lookout for somethin' not on the strictly legal side-a the law; that way, they got _somebody_ to put in the can without lookin' like baddies for lockin' up little kids."

He glances at Snowboy, who doesn't need any urging—the dark-haired Jet races up through the doorway and around to the window in Doc's store, turning his jacket backwards over his chest to look like court robes, and settles in, a very superior expression on his face. The other Jets eagerly join in the pantomime, Big Deal acting out the part of the bailiff and A-Rab taking notes as the stenographer while Baby John looks on, wide-eyed. Even a skeptical-looking Anybodys perches behind A-Rab, watching the action.

Riff grins. "So ya tell 'em your folks at home shoot the weed but won't let ya have any, an' that's why ya act up. The old man'll be so damn shocked at your lousy bringin'-up makin' ya beg for grass that he'll call ya—"

"Psychologically disturbed," supplies Snowboy in a sepulchral voice, banging an invisible gavel. "I oughta know; every single one-a 'em I an' Bobby over there ever saw in juvie court said the same thing about us an' our neuroses," he adds in an amused aside. Ice glances at Joyboy, who is scowling darkly. "Anyway. Hear ye, hear ye!" announces Snowboy, reverting back to his judge's voice. "This court declares this child's gotta go see a headshrinker to figure out why he's so depraved."

Riff grins. "It's on account-a I'm so _deprived_, Snowboy, don'tcha know _anythin'_?"

Ice half-smiles. Riff, he thinks for probably the thousandth time as the Jets hoot and holler at their leader's play on words, is a damn good leader. Telling his gang cute little jokes seems like it wouldn't do much, but Riff is smarter than he looks and knows that if he keeps the Jets busy during downtime, they're that less likely to turn on him. Action, in particular, is grinning and looking abnormally relaxed as he smirks at his fearless leader, which is a minor miracle in itself. And even Ice, well—he's amused, for sure.

"Gee," murmurs a still-anxious Baby John, "a shrink? But whaddaya tell _them_? Don't they got all them ways to analyze ya an' stuff, an' know if you're lyin'?"

"Oh, shrinks're the easiest," scoffs Riff. "They all wanna hear the same thing."

And Baby John takes the bait. "What's that?"

Riff grins. "_Sex_, little man."

If he didn't have all of the Jets' attention before, thinks Ice, stifling a laugh as the Jets visibly perk up, he does now. Behind A-Rab, Anybodys gags, and Riff is probably lucky Graziella and Velma are still messing with their hair—Ice has known the redhead to clobber the Jet captain for less.

Baby John gulps. "S—sex?"

Riff grins smugly at the only Jet who's never had it. "Yep."

"How's that?" A-Rab wants to know, looking intrigued.

Riff glances at Action with a smirk. "You wanna take it, buddy-boy?"

And Action, who is as unlike Baby John in this particular field as it is possible to be, grins. "Well," he explains, raising a mocking finger, "for them, it's all gender roles an' daddy-daughter complexes. You lie on their couch an' tell 'em your sister's a dyke an' your brother has a cute little habit-a tryin' on your nutjob grandma's dresses, an' they'll eat right into your hand 'cause you're so goddamn _normal_ compared to the resta your family."

Baby John blinks. "But I don't have a brother, an' my sister ain't a dyke." He blanches. "'Least, I don't _think_ so."

Riff, winking at Action, shrugs. "The truth's a funny thing, buddy-boy," he says wisely, "an' no one's ever gonna know but you."

Action snorts. "'Sides," he says, rolling his eyes, "you _tell_ 'em the truth—that ya just like bein' bad for the hell of it—an' they'll lock you up in a psych ward 'cause it's too _dumb_ to be true. This way, they just pat ya on the shoulder an' say ya gotta go to work 'cause bein' a juvie's just a 'social disease' or some shit like that."

A-Rab cackles and darts a meaningful glance below Action's belt. "True story, buddy?" He dodges nimbly as the Jets explode into laughter and the dark-haired boy lunges at him. "Hey, I'm just sayin'!"

Ice snorts. Considering all the time Action spends with Pauline and every other girl who isn't scared of him, it could very well be true.

"An' then they'll ship ya off to a social worker, kid," Riff says over the scuffle, clapping Baby John on the back. "So's you can find a job an' become a 'productive member-a society,' don'tcha know."

Baby John considers this, and Ice, watching him, is surprised to note that he actually doesn't look too put off by this prospect. "What kinda job?"

Riff shrugs. "Don't know an' don't care. Thing is, we don't wanna work, do we, buddy-boys?" he asks the rest of the Jets, who grin and sound their raucous agreement. "See, us, we're part-a the Anti-Work Union-a America, an' I'm sorry to say that every single one-a us would have to tell that social worker we ain't lookin' for a job. Not none-a us," he says emphatically. "It's against our principalities."

Baby John stares. "Can ya do that?"

Riff shrugs again. "Why not? Kid, it don't matter _what_ ya say, so ya might as well screw with their heads a little. Cops, judges, shrinks, do-gooder social workers, I been up in fronta alla them, an' they're all the same. No matter what ya say, they're gonna go right on believin' what they wanna believe about us."

"Yeah, Baby John, don'tcha get it?" adds A-Rab with a grin, having finally managed to get away from Action. He screws up his face and pitches his voice about two octaves higher into a shrill imitation of a woman. "Deep down inside, you're just _no damn good_!"

As the Jets crack up again at what is easy to recognize as A-Rab's social worker impression, Baby John's shoulders sag. "Oh."

Riff claps him on the shoulder. "Cheer up, kid. It ain't so bad." He grins. "Sure, they might stick ya in the pen for a year, but just play along an' snow 'em a little, an' they can't resist. It's bein' old an' ugly, see. Every single one-a them wants ya to tell 'em what's wrong, so's they can fix ya an' go on their merry little way. No one ever wants to hear it ain't that simple." His tone is light and amused and matter of fact, and Riff has never spoken a truer word in his life. "So we tell 'em what they do wanna hear so they can label _why_ ya went bad. They'll fill in the blanks all by themselves—they gotta have a reason for everythin'. Makes 'em feel good about themselves." He glances around at the Jets with a grin. "Me, they always say I ain't right in the head. What about you boys?"

Ice keeps his mouth shut. He knows what adults have always thought about him, but he's never subscribed to it. The obvious explanation is too easy. But the other Jets have more than enough to say on the subject.

"Lazy," says Snowboy comfortably, leaning against the window. "Won't apply myself."

"I drink too much," puts in his twin with a hard smirk. "Me, I say I don't drink _enough_."

A-Rab lets out a giggle. "I'm just a no-good stinker."

"I'll say," mutters Anybodys, pinching her nose. "Pee-yew!"

Baby John shrugs. "They think it's 'cause my old man passed when I was little an' made me funny in the head," he says. "I don't got no father figure, see."

Ice eyes him, curious. In Baby John's case, at least, that could very well be it. Which is maybe why the kid joined up with the Jets in the first place. Huh, he thinks, amazed. Maybe this psychobabble isn't all bullshit, after all.

"My ma always says it's 'cause I'm a growin' boy," says Mouthpiece happily, humming under his breath.

The Jets stare up at the beanpole for a minute until Riff snorts. "You're what, six feet? Couple under? How much more she figure you're gonna grow?"

"I don' know," answers a beatific Mouthpiece, "but she says my dad was real tall."

Riff, after a moment, waves the blond off. "Anyway, see, Baby John? It ain't so hard."

Baby John shrugs. "I guess. So if Krupke comes back I just—make up stories about drugs an' drinkin' an' all that?"

Riff grins. "Right you are, buddy-boy. Learn fast, don'tcha?"

Ice can't help but chuckle. Sure, the cops and judges and psychiatrists and do-gooders think they know everything about them, but it's just the same crap over and over again and none of it really matters. What does matter, he thinks, is them, right here. The Jets. The world's a shitty place, yeah, but when you're a Jet, you've got everything you'll ever need.

Ice smiles to himself, a true smile, and refocuses on his friends just as an obedient Baby John nods. "Okay, Riff. I dig it."

The Jet leader smirks. "An' if even that don't work—an' it will, trust me—do what I do."

"Whaddaya you do?" asks the kid, wide-eyed.

"Oh, Krupke?" Riff calls innocently. He sticks his palm out at Tiger, who hands him the newspaper he is still holding. Without turning, Riff whacks Tiger one on the head and grins. "Tell 'em to, er—_krup_ off."

The Jets burst into laughter as Tiger crashes to the ground in a mock-daze. "Why the hell didn't I ever think of that?" wonders A-Rab, cackling.

"'Cause you're a dumbass," snaps Anybodys, shoving him as she drops down from her perch on the ledge of the stairs.

Ice feels a hand on his shoulder and turns to see a smiling, friendly Doc. "Curfew, gentlemen! And ladies," he adds quickly as he walks down the steps and catches sight of the two girls. "Aren't you up a little late, Baby John?"

But Ice, who's stuck a piece of gum palmed from Big Deal into his mouth and is chewing away, barely hears him. Velma, finally done with Graziella's hair—which, to be honest, looks exactly the same to him—is hurrying back over after retrieving her purse from the window and yet again, Ice can't help but notice that _damn_, she looks good. Velma takes his outstretched hand and Ice immediately feels something wound up tight in him relax. He doesn't know how, but somehow everything is right-side up in his world again. Yeah, Ice thinks as he pulls her to his side and ushers her through the narrow doorway into Doc's, when you're a Jet, you've got everything you'll ever need.

They skip to the back of Doc's store, Ice trashing the gum on the way, and settle in their usual corner, just out of sight behind the pinball machine. Ice, pulling Velma onto his lap, finds plenty to get distracted by in her lips and hair and skin, all of it warm and softer than he can believe. This is life, he thinks, content. Just him, and his girl, and his buddies.

Out of corner of his eye, he can see Anybodys leaning over. She might be saying something about Velma and Gee-Tar and a dance, but Ice is too utterly absorbed to care.

"D'ya hear somethin'?" Velma breathes.

Ice shakes his head with a half-smile and pulls her closer. "Not a damn thing."

But then Gee-Tar's warning whistle sounds and as they break apart, they see Riff jerk his hand at her to get out. Velma obediently hops off his lap and starts to go, but Ice holds onto her fingertips until she he looks back.

"See ya later," he says quietly.

She nods, blue eyes steady. "See ya."

Ice stands up, watches her keenly as she sidles past the PRs, daring any of them to so much as touch her. Just try, he thinks, eyes narrowed, just you try and you'll be out quicker than you can say sorry.

But Velma passes unscathed and through the door, followed by a pouting Graziella and—after some prodding—Anybodys, and just like that, Ice thinks, mind turning to the matter at hand, it's all back to business again.


	8. time and the hour

Disclaimer: I own...Velma's family and Clarissa Clausen. That's all.

Note: I had problems with this chapter for awhile, and was afraid I wouldn't be able to finish it on time (especially since I visited **HedgehogQuill** this week, which was super-fun), but then last night I got unblocked and here we are. I hope you like it. :)

Proper credit: Reference is made to chapter 5 of **HedgehogQuill's** _Now It Begins_, though it should make sense on its own. :)

Hope you enjoy!

—viennacantabile

* * *

fell the angels

eight : time and the hour

.

Most of life is so dull it is not worth discussing, and it is dull at all ages. When we change our brand of cigarette, move to a new neighborhood, subscribe to a different newspaper, fall in and out of love, we are protesting in ways both frivolous and deep against the not to be diluted dullness of day-to-day living. Unfortunately, one mirror is as treacherous as another, reflecting at some point in every adventure the same vain unsatisfied face, and so when she asks what have I done? she means really what am I doing? as one usually does.

—Truman Capote, Summer Crossing

.

Outside Doc's, Graziella huffs. "What does he think he's doin', bossin' me around like that?"

Velma just shrugs. "Maybe he just didn't want ya where the PRs could get at ya," she suggests as they begin the walk back to their block. The real truth, and what everyone knows besides her best friend, is that Graziella has a mouth bigger than the whole West Side and doesn't mind proving it, even in sticky situations like these.

"Whaddaya think I am, dumb or somethin'?" the redhead snaps. "You _know_ Riff likes showin' me off, same's I like showin' _him_ off!"

Velma rolls her eyes and attempts a different tack. "Graz. Honey. Why would ya wanna be in there, anyway? All they're gonna do is snap at each other for puttin' toes on each others' blocks."

Graziella pouts. "Well, yeah, but…it's like he's always tryin' to get rid-a me!" she bursts out, crossing her arms. "Like—like he don't want me around!"

"Graz," Velma sighs, rubbing her temples before trying one last time, "look. It ain't that he don't want ya around, but don't ya see, he's gotta act the big man around the Jets. They won't do what he says if they see him doin' what _you_ say." It's a white lie—Riff would never take orders from his girl—but half of the excuse is true, anyway.

Graziella sniffs. "That don't stop Ice."

Velma smiles in spite of herself. "Well, no, but he's lieutenant. It'd be different if he was leader." She sighs. "Thank God he ain't."

Graziella watches her, curiosity in her eyes. "What, ya really wouldn't want him to be? Then _you'd_ be the Jet captain's girl," she points out, a trace of something Velma can't quite identify in her voice. "That ain't no slouch job, y'know."

Velma glances at Graziella. "It ain't about me," she says, surprised. "It's about him havin' to be out there, makin' the big decisions with eleven other guys lookin' at him if somethin' goes wrong. It ain't that I don't think he could do it," she adds, not wanting her friend to get the wrong impression. There is very little she doesn't think Ice could do, if he wanted to. "It's that…well, I know he could."

Graziella considers this. "I don' get it," she finally says, tossing her orange curls. "If he _can_ do it, why wouldn't ya want him to?"

Velma sighs. Graziella is a really great best friend when you want to talk about clothes, or dancing, but this is something she won't be able to understand: how some things can change a person, and how those changes can turn the boy you once loved into someone you don't even know. Leading the Jets—a full-time job if there ever was one—is one of them.

So instead she opts for the explanation she knows Graziella will get. "Well, see," she says with a little laugh, "if Ice was leader, where'd that leave Riff? An' _you_?"

Graziella immediately beams. "Oh, Vel," she sniffs, putting an arm around her best friend, "that's the sweetest thing I ever heard."

Velma smiles. "How about that girl?" she says, deciding to change the subject. "The one Tony danced with. Ice said she was Bernardo's sister."

Graziella stops dead and gapes at her. "You're _kiddin'_."

Velma shakes her head, still hardly able to believe it herself. "Nope."

"Well, damn," says Graziella, planting indignant hands on her hips. "Y'know, I spent all those years tryin' to get Tony's attention an' got nothin'. An' now one dance with a Spic girl—_Bernardo's sister_—an' he's dead gone on her? That ain't right, Vel."

"It sure is funny," sighs Velma, remembering that dark-haired girl, so different from the rest of them. "I mean, I know sometimes ya can't help who it is, but—Tony?"

"Damn," Graziella repeats, full lips pointed downward. "Well, it ain't gonna go nowhere," she predicts confidently, beginning to move again. "Riff won't let his best buddy get with a Shark girl, no way."

Velma glances at her best friend. "Ya really think that'll stop him?"

Graziella gives a firm nod. "A-course! I mean, you wouldn't let _me_ get with one-a those dirty Sharks, would ya?" she asks with a shudder.

"No, 'course not," Velma says automatically, though she wonders. If it was what Graziella really wanted… Then she glances at the redhead, whose mouth is still turned down in a pout. Well, in any case, it would never happen. Not with Graziella. "But Tony ain't been around the Jets for awhile, right?"

"Well, yeah," admits the redhead, "but it's like Riff's always tellin' me—Jets stay Jets for life." She sighs dreamily. "That's why we love 'em so much, y'know?"

"Right," agrees Velma with a small smile. "We do."

"Vel, listen," says Graziella as they reach their block, dropping her voice, "I got a feelin' Riff's thinkin' about settlin' down. You know. The _M_ word."

Velma's eyes widen. "Really?"

"Yeah," Graziella says, a smug smile on her face. "I kept talkin' to him about it the other day when he was playin' cards with the boys, an' y'know what? _He never said no_. _That's_ proof if I ever saw it, Vel!"

"Oh," says Velma, at a loss for words. She has a hard time believing Riff is seriously considering proposing to Graziella—he just doesn't seem the type to do it before he absolutely has to—but her best friend looks so excited she doesn't have the heart to say anything. "That's great, Graz!"

"I can't wait," beams her friend. "I got the dress an' the cake an' the church picked out already! You'll be my maid-a honor, right?"

Velma smiles. "Sure, Graz. An'—" She hesitates, biting her lip. "You'll do the same for me, right? Whenever that is?"

Graziella smirks. "Know somethin', do we?"

Velma is annoyed to feel herself blushing for no reason at all. "No, I just—"

"Well, Ice's just crazy about ya," Graziella cuts in happily. "I bet he's gonna be namin' the date real soon, Vel!"

Velma, eyes on the pavement in front of them, doesn't say anything. Marrying Ice is one of the things she tries not to let herself dwell on too much—there's no point, after all. She very much doubts _any_ of the boys are thinking about that kind of thing right now, and Velma doesn't want to get her hopes up like Graziella. The more you expect, the bigger the disappointment can be, and this is something that doesn't just depend on herself. Which is probably why she doesn't ever bring up the future with him. Discussing that kind of thing just makes it harder to enjoy the present they have.

The truth is, though, if she allows herself to consider it, is that Velma has never felt about anyone the way she feels about Ice. Unlike Pauline and Bernice, Velma is a one-guy kind of girl, and if she's ever going to marry anyone, she knows who she wants it to be. It's that same question about the distant future all over again. No one knows what it will be, least of all a just-turned seventeen year-old girl in love with a boy who has yet to become a man. All she can do is wait to find out what it holds. But all the same…

Velma tips her head back to look up at the midnight sky. "Yeah," she murmurs, with a wistful sigh. The warm air is still and the stars are bright and unmoving. "That'd be nice."

.

They make plans to meet tomorrow and say goodbye in the middle of the street, and afterward, Velma watches Graziella flounce over to her side and dart into her apartment building. She's probably waiting up for Riff, just like Velma is waiting for Ice, and Velma hopes her best friend won't be disappointed in her boyfriend, now, or ever. Riff's a good guy, and Graziella is happy. Really, truly happy. Velma is no expert on life but how many times does that happen? Not often, that's for sure, and if they are lucky it will last. All of it.

Just as she lets herself into the Andersen apartment, Velma looks up to see her mother fast asleep on the sofa and smiles. "_Mamma_," she says, crossing over and putting a gentle hand on her mother's shoulder, "I'm home."

Mrs. Andersen's blue eyes flutter open to focus, after a moment, on her daughter's face. "Did you have a nice time?"

Velma smiles slightly at her mother's sleep-softened Swedish. "Yeah, I did. Where's Dad?"

Mrs. Andersen slowly sits up and smoothes a hand over Velma's hair. "Still at the hospital. You look very pretty."

"Thanks, _Mamma_," Velma murmurs. "Are the boys back yet?"

Covering a yawn, her mother nods. "Peter came home an hour ago. Chris is spending the night at Fred's."

Velma laughs. She can only imagine how Graziella is going to feel about having both her own brother and an extra teenage boy in her apartment, especially with Riff on the way over. "Well, it's late, _Mamma_. You should go to bed."

Mrs. Andersen yawns again. "That's a good idea," she admits, before hesitating. "Your father still isn't home from the hospital, though."

"Dad wouldn't want you to wait up for him when you're so tired," Velma says firmly. "C'mon, _Mamma_."

Her mother relents with a sigh. "Well, all right." Getting up with, she glances at her daughter. "If he comes home and you're still up, tell him his dinner is in the oven."

"I will," Velma nods. As her mother wearily makes her way to her room, though, Velma frowns. In all likelihood, Ice will be here and she will be a little…occupied…when her father gets home. She'll write a note, Velma decides, and hurries to the kitchen.

She stops short, though, at the sight of her fifteen year-old brother holding a gigantic slice of cake and happily chomping away. His blue eyes bug out at her approach.

"Hi, Peter," Velma says with a giggle.

Peter swallows with a very audible gulp and switches on a winning grin. "Hi, Vel."

"So, I didn't see ya at the dance tonight," Velma says with an innocent smile. "Where were ya?"

"I was there the whole time!" protests Peter, wiping the crumbs off his face with the back of his hand. "I just—um—"

Velma regards him with some amusement. "Yeah?"

"Well," says Peter with a sheepish chuckle, "Clarissa—you know, my date—"

"Clarissa Clausen, yeah," Velma fills in with a smirk. "Minnie told me."

Peter's face turns the slightest bit red. "Yeah, her. She was real happy to be there, an' she kept kissin' me every time I said somethin', an' finally we just, er—"

Velma's lips twitch. "Went out back an' started makin' out?"

"Maybe," Peter admits, scratching his head in embarrassment. "She wouldn't let up."

"Oh, I see," Velma says with a very straight face. She loves her little brother, she really does, but sometimes she can't resist teasing him. Especially about girls.

"Ya ain't gonna tell _Mamma_ or Dad, are ya?" asks Peter anxiously. "I swear that was it."

Velma smirks. "Ya weren't out joinin' a gang or gettin' into trouble, were ya?"

"Me?" asks Peter, wide-eyed. "No way, Dad'd _kill_ me!" Then he gives her a funny look. "Wait, but ain't _Ice_—"

"Just 'cause my boyfriend's a Jet don't mean I want you to be," Velma tells him seriously. She laughs a little. "Actually, that's prob'ly _why_ I don't want ya to be one. I know _exactly_ what they get up to."

"Johnny Kowalski's a Jet," says Peter cautiously. "An' Minnie Goddard says all the Jets're nice."

"Baby John gets into a lot of trouble I don't want you anywhere near," Velma says, remembering the cut on the boy's face and feeling every inch the protective older sister she is. Peter is in the same grade as Baby John and Minnie and at least one Jet's little brother at school, so it's not surprising he knows more about the Jets than Velma has told him. "An' you know Minnie thinks everyone's nice, Peter."

"She sure does," Peter agrees, nodding once, twice, three times. There's a strange look in his blue eyes as her brother hesitantly goes on. "It's prob'ly 'cause she's so nice herself."

"She is," agrees Velma, giving him a keen glance. From what she's heard, Peter is pretty popular with the girls at school. But he hasn't really had a serious girlfriend yet, and now Velma is starting to wonder if a certain friend of hers has anything to do with it. "Y'know…Minnie asked if you were gonna be there."

Peter clears his throat. "She did?"

"Yeah," nods Velma. "When we were gettin' ready."

"Oh," says Peter, taking another bite of his cake and gulping it down. "She's—yeah, she's real nice."

Velma eyes him for another moment, then figures that his business is his business and even if he does like Minnie, there's nothing she can do about it but wait for him to tell his older sister. "Anyway, look, I just don't want ya gettin' caught up in gang stuff, okay?"

"Not a chance," says Peter, and Velma is surprised to hear a note of frustration in his voice. "That Annie girl who dresses like a guy an' that Aaron kid—A-Rab, I think—wouldn't let me anywhere near the Jets, even if I wanted to be one. So I'm stickin' to soccer as my after-school fun."

Velma exhales. "Good," she says, with a half smile. "I don't wanna have to worry about you, too."

Peter glances at her. "Ice can take care-a himself, sis," he offers, beginning to munch on his cake again.

"I know," she says. She's said it so many times that it feels rote, automatic. She might know, Velma thinks with a sigh, but it sure isn't helping. Taking a scrap of paper off the counter, she scribbles the message for her father. "Anyway, don't eat too much cake or they'll notice. I'm goin' to bed."

Peter watches her anxiously. "An' ya won't tell?"

Velma stops and smiles at him. "What've I got to say?"

.

When she reaches her doorway, Velma leaves the ceiling light off and heads to her closet, flipping the switches on a few of the paper and blown-glass lamps clustered around the room on the way. As Ice has noted before, they are fragile and don't give off that much light, but Velma likes them anyway. It's like falling asleep next to the moon and the stars in the soft glow of evening dimness, and for someone who spends most of her nights out and about with the Jets and their girls, Velma loves that suggestion of brightness.

It takes longer than usual for her to strip off her dress and hang it up over her shoes in her closet. She's slow, sluggish, limbs worn out from the hours of dancing, and as she sits down on her bed in just her corselette and makeup, Velma wonders how the war council is going.

She's not—_worried_, precisely; after all, even gangs have their own code of honor, and tonight is just talking. Theoretically, at least. Discounting the possibility of double-crossing Sharks and one of the nastier police officers showing up. Which is the problem: Velma has never been good about trusting factors outside of her control, least of all when it comes to someone she loves.

But as Graziella has told her over and over again, she needs to lighten up. Ice will be back at any time now, she knows, and Velma doesn't want to bother him when it really is just a war council, after all, and they've got better things to do. With a sigh she gets to her feet and moves to the window that is always left half-open, parting the curtains. He might be walking up the street already.

"HI, VELMA!"

Velma lets out a muffled shriek and dives for a robe. "_Mouthpiece_?"

"That's me," beams the Jet, who is perched on the railing of the fire escape landing outside. Now that her eyes have adjusted to the darkness outside, Velma can see that he's got his paw-like hand over his eyes. "Don't worry," he adds, as if to emphasize this. "I wouldn' ever look 'less ya wanted me to, Velma! I'm a _gentleman_."

Velma lets out a weak laugh, her heart thudding crazily. "Gee," she says, nevertheless wrapping the robe tightly around her body as she approaches the window again, "thanks."

"Welcome," Mouthpiece returns affably, plopping down onto the floor of the fire escape.

"What're ya doin' here?" asks Velma, flabbergasted. She leans carefully over the windowsill. "Shouldn't you be at the war council?"

"Nah, I left 'fore you did," grins Mouthpiece. "Action said there wasn't enough room inside, so I hadda leave." He thinks about this for a moment. "So I did."

"That's nice," says Velma faintly. "So…why'd ya come here, then?"

"Well," says Mouthpiece happily, "I thought I'd make sure ya made it home okay 'fore I go see Bernice." Another pause. "Can I look yet?"

Velma rolls her eyes. "I guess."

Mouthpiece carefully peeks between his fingers and removes his hand after assuring himself that she is adequately covered. "Ya look real pretty. An' I like your room all lit up like that."

Velma smiles in spite of herself, still bemused. "Thanks, Mouthpiece. Look," she says, trying not to begrudge him the fact that he is not Ice. The Jet is kind of lovable in his own way, after all. Like an overgrown puppy. "Why're ya here?"

Mouthpiece blinks. "Like I told ya, I thought I'd make sure ya made it home okay 'fore I go see—"

"Bernice, right," Velma fills in, raising an eyebrow at the thought of Bernice entertaining Mouthpiece not too long from now. "I get that. But—" She stops. "Mouthpiece, y'know Ice is comin' over after the war council, right?"

"Yup," confirms a cheery Mouthpiece.

"So—why would ya come here?" Velma goes on, a little frustrated at his inability to get what she is driving at. "You know he ain't gonna be happy seein' another Jet here. Least of all you."

Mouthpiece appears to think about this. "Gee, you're smart, Velma."

Velma takes a deep breath. "Mouthpiece. So _why are you here_?"

Mouthpiece gives her as serious of a look as she has ever seen from him. "It's 'cause I—"

Say it, she wills. Say it, so I can tell you that you're sweet, but you're not Ice. And if you're not Ice, you're not the one I want. I'm sorry. That's all. _Say it_.

But Mouthpiece, as always, just grins. "'Cause I'm lookin' out for my buddy's girl!" he finishes brightly.

Velma sighs, defeated. "Thanks, Mouthpiece."

"Welcome," Mouthpiece returns again, a broad grin across his face. "So whaddaya wanna talk about now? I could tell ya all about the train I'm gonna have when I'm grown up. Or hippogorgeouses. I _love_ hippogorgeouses."

Velma closes her eyes. She doesn't want to talk about trains, or hippopotamuses, or anything else his brain can come up with. "Look, Mouthpiece," she says, opening her eyes again and rubbing at her temples, "I appreciate it, I really do, but the war council ain't gonna take that long, an' I really don't think Ice's gonna like it if you're sittin' out there when he gets here."

Mouthpiece perks up. "I could come inside!"

Velma, resisting the urge to bang her head against the wall, sighs. "I don't think that's a good idea, either. You know Ice. He might—well, hurt ya. If ya don't leave, ya might end up in the hospital, see?"

"Gee, Velma," Mouthpiece breathes, "_thanks_. You're awful nice."

Velma cringes. "Thanks, I guess. But—"

"Say, how d'ya think that war-council's goin', anyhow?" Mouthpiece asks comfortably, leaning back against the railing. "Think Riff an' them're takin' the mickey outta them Sharks?"

Velma narrows her eyes. "What?"

"You know," Mouthpiece goes on, "them PRs at the dance!"

"Yeah," Velma says with a frown, "but it's just a war-council. Nobody's going to be fightin' tonight." She sighs. "Just talkin' _about_ fightin'. Right?"

"Oh, right," Mouthpiece says happily. "Just talkin'."

Velma watches him closely for a moment, then exhales. Like Ice, Mouthpiece has been a Jet for more than a few years, and there are things he could tell her that few others could. She supposes that if she weren't feeling so unsettled tonight, she wouldn't mention it, but Mouthpiece, of all the Jets, is the least likely to remember this later. "Look," she says, biting her lip. "Can I ask ya somethin'?"

"I'll tell ya anythin'," returns Mouthpiece with a wide grin. "Just ask."

Velma sighs. "Mouthpiece, I'm serious."

"No, really," says the blond Jet, scooting forward a few inches. His blue eyes are wide and earnest and Velma, glancing in surprise at him, hesitates.

"An' ya won't tell anyone?"

"Yeah," confirms Mouthpiece, nodding. "Ask me anythin' ya want, Velma."

Velma takes a deep breath. Anything she wants. She knows what she'd like to ask: what happened tonight, and what he thinks will happen tomorrow. It's not that she thinks Ice would lie to her, or leave things out, but if she is to understand why he isn't here right now, another perspective will help. Even if it is Mouthpiece's. But what comes out of her mouth is a surprise even to her.

"Do you think it's worth it? Being a Jet?"

Mouthpiece furrows his brow. "Whaddaya mean?"

Velma shrugs, already a little embarrassed, but not wanting him to see. "I mean—you could get hurt, right? An' I bet your ma don't like it much, either. Is it worth all the trouble ya get from bein' a Jet, _to_ be a Jet?"

Mouthpiece's frown grows deeper. "I don't get it."

Velma's mouth quirks up. Mouthpiece, if nothing else, is nice. Simple. Different from the other Jets in that he doesn't always seem to have something gnawing, biting at him, a reason for him to be unhappy. Which makes it even more confusing that he is one of them. "I guess I'm askin'—why be a Jet? What's in it for you?"

Mouthpiece's broad grin splits his face. "Jets is family," he says. It's as if he has known the question all along. "'S what Tony told me when I joined up."

The answer comes as easily as it probably would from Ice, but Velma still doesn't understand. She _has_ a family, and she's always been told that no friends will ever compare to the blood ties created at birth. And even if all of the Jets don't have that kind of home life—most of them still have parents, right? Even Ice, who's told her enough about his dead father to know that it's a good thing Mr. Callahan isn't around anymore, has a mother. One who loves him more than anything. Velma doesn't know much about Mouthpiece, but she supposes _someone_ has to have been feeding him for the boy to get that tall. "Don't ya already have a family, though?"

Mouthpiece shrugs. "My dad ran off when I was a baby, but yeah, I got my mom."

"Oh," says Velma, feeling very strange. In the year that she's lived and been friends with the Jets, she's met more parentless kids than she ever did her whole life back in her old neighborhood, where if there were problems you never heard about them and the one or two kids who had divorced parents were always held at arms-length, as if they had some kind of disease no one wanted to catch. Certainly no one ever talked about it as matter-of-factly as Mouthpiece. "No brothers or sisters?"

"Nope," Mouthpiece says cheerfully. "Just me."

"Oh," Velma says again. Even though Astrid and Katrina have been married for over a year now, the house is still plenty full and she can't imagine life without at least one sibling around. She props her chin on her hands and hazards a guess. "I guess ya get awful lonely sometimes?

Mouthpiece shrugs again. "Sometimes I used to wish I had a little brother or sister. But not since I started bein' a Jet."

"So they're like your brothers, then," Velma says slowly, trying to understand. She is close to Graziella, Clarice, and Minnie, though it's a different sort of relationship than the ones she has with her sisters. But, she supposes, if you never knew anything else, how would you know the difference?

Mouthpiece appears to think about this. "I guess so, yeah."

"So when ya say Jets is family, that's what you mean?" asks Velma, leaning forward on the windowsill.

Mouthpiece grins. "Yup."

Velma thinks about this, and wonders if this is how Ice feels. "Well," she says after a moment, "thanks."

"Welcome," he says, nodding his head cheerfully. "Anythin' else ya wanna ask?"

Velma half-smiles. "Nah, that's it. Look," she says, glancing back into her room, "it's been nice talkin' to ya, but it's gettin' late, an' Ice'll be here soon. An' Bernice is waitin', y'know."

Mouthpiece brightens. "Oh, yeah, I better go—g'night, Velma!" He waves at her, then hops off his perch and begins to clamber down the stairs.

Just as he's almost out of sight, Velma remembers something and leans out the window. "Oh—Mouthpiece?"

He looks up, placid face eager. "Yeah?"

"Don't tell anyone I asked, okay?" she reminds him. It isn't that she thinks the question was so embarrassing, but Velma doesn't like the idea of everyone knowing she's unsure about anything, even something like this. She hesitates. "Not even Ice."

"'Course not," the big Jet says reproachfully. "I ain't that kinda guy, Velma!"

Velma smiles in spite of herself. He really is sweet, and she knows he's going to make some special girl very happy one day. "No, I know you're not."

Mouthpiece glances at her, and she is startled to see a serious look on his face, for once. "An' don't worry, Velma," he says, a glimmer of understanding passing through his wide blue eyes. "Jets is like brothers, remember? So I'll look out for Ice, an' he'll look out for me, an' everythin'll be okay."

Velma stares at him, a little bit amazed that he's managed to figure out that much. Then Mouthpiece waves one last time and clatters down the fire escape and into the streets. Velma gazes after him for a long time, turning his words over in her mind. For someone who isn't the sharpest crayon in the box, Mouthpiece certainly has managed to make her think. About Ice, about herself, and even about him.

The night air is still warm from the heat of the day. Slipping her robe off, Velma leaves the window and moves around her bed to sit down at her vanity. Picking up her hairbrush, she runs it through her hair. Family. Does Ice, who is so very different from Mouthpiece, really want the same thing in the end? Do all of them? It's something Velma's never quite considered, because she's always had her own. And now she wonders what it would be like without Astrid and Katrina, and Peter and Chris, and her mother and father. What her whole life would have been like, without that surety. Is that absence part of what makes the Jets who they are?

Well, thinks Velma, meeting her own gaze in the mirror, if that's true, and if what Ice needs is that kind of love, then it's her job to let him know that he has it. That he is not alone, now or ever. And that he does have a family—if he wants it—in hers.


	9. down to business

Disclaimer: Nope, nothing. Although the Betas belong to **LCV Productions**. :)

Note: I think I finally figured out where part of the discrepancy in word count (apart from author's notes) between FFN and Microsoft Word comes in: Microsoft Word counts this-kind-of-thing as one word, and FFN doesn't. Which apparently adds about 300 words or something? Although that doesn't account for section breaks upping the word count. ._.a Anyway, now that I have digressed, here is your weekly installment of fell the angels. :) Hope you enjoy!

For: **HedgehogQuill**, **Megfly**, and **xXc0okieSsNcrEamXx**, with much love and endless thanks for the reviews and the encouragement.

Proper credit: I've used a line/idea concerning Action from the script or the novel, can't remember which, heh.

—viennacantabile

* * *

fell the angels

nine : down to business

.

"Here's the rule for bargains. 'Do other men, for they would do you.' That's the true business precept."

—Charles Dickens, Martin Chuzzlewit

.

Once the girls are gone, the Sharks file in, footsteps thudding slow and sullen, and Ice, still standing, lights up a cigarette. Velma doesn't like it when he smokes (according to her, it makes him taste like broccoli, which is just about the oddest thing she's ever said) but it'll be awhile before he sees her again and that's what Big Deal's gum is for, anyway. Right now, with an enemy gang in their headquarters and tension thick in the air, all he wants a smoke.

"Okay, Doc, set 'em up," instructs Riff, heading toward Ice's table. "Cokes all around."

But Bernardo isn't having any of this. "Let's get down to business."

Riff shoots the Jets a contemptuous smirk as he moves to sit down. "Ooh, Bernardo hasn't learned the procedures-a gracious livin'."

Bernardo echoes the Jet leader's mocking smile and adds a half-bow, to boot. "l don't like you either." His face darkens, as does his voice. "So cut it."

Riff eyes him for a moment, then turns his head. "'K, kick it, Doc."

Doc, as always, doesn't understand. "Boys, couldn't you maybe talk—"

"_Kick it_."

The old man sighs and disappears into the back. Sure, maybe when he was their age, things were different and you could talk, thinks Ice as Riff gestures to the two empty chairs at their table, but that was then and this is now. Ice taps the ash off his cigarette as Bernardo and Pepe take their seats. He's willing to bet Doc didn't have to deal with half of what they do today—lousy cops on the take, social workers sticking their noses everywhere they're not wanted. Puerto Ricans trying to take over their territory. No, he thinks, things are different now.

Once Doc is gone, Riff stares Bernardo down. "We challenge you to a rumble. All out, once and for all. Accept?"

A cool Bernardo stares right back. "On what terms?"

"Whatever terms you're callin'," Riff shrugs, eyes narrowing. "You crossed the line once too often."

"You started it," says Bernardo in a low, terse voice, and Ice's eyebrows contract. The Sharks were the ones to swan in on Jet turf months ago, just like they owned it. All the Jets are doing is protecting what little the world grants as theirs. What excuse do the Sharks have?

"Who jumped Baby John this afternoon?" demands Riff.

Bernardo makes a fast, angry gesture with his hand. "Who jumped _me_ the first day I moved here?"

The Jets—Ice included—don't appreciate this at all. "Who asked you to move here?" sneers Action.

"Who asked _you_?" retorts Pepe.

But Snowboy backs Action up. "Move where you're wanted!"

"Back where ya came from!" fills in A-Rab.

"Spics!"

"Mick!"

And Ice jerks his head up to glare at Pepe, suddenly furious. Fucking PRs—who are _they_ to talk about Micks? But Ice keeps his seat. He's heard worse, and this is a war council, after all; there'll be plenty of time to settle scores at the rumble. So when the last "Wop!" is fired, Ice, along with Riff, Bernardo, and Pepe, is able to hold the lower-ranking members of the gangs back. Later, he thinks, directing a warning glance around at the Jets. Later.

After a long, tense moment, the gang members settle back and Bernardo returns his dark gaze to Riff. "We accept."

Riff doesn't hesitate. "Time."

"Tomorrow?"

"After dark," Riff specifies.

Bernardo gives a deep nod; the two gang leaders shake hands.

"Place."

Bernardo shrugs. "The Park?"

Ice thinks it over, mind running through the possibilities in a few seconds. No. That's the first place the coppers will look and there are always too many not-so-innocent bystanders in there. And in the Park, where there are trees and shadows and countless places to hide, there is always the risk of an ambush. He shakes his head ever-so-slightly at Riff, who knows his lieutenant well enough to catch the movement.

"The river," the Jet captain counters.

Ice watches Bernardo consult Pepe, who also shakes his head behind the wisps of smoke drifting up from his cigarette. Ice can guess why: too open, too obvious, and too easy to get cornered by. It's also a hell of a lot closer to Jet territory than it is to the Sharks' neighborhood, and no way are the PRs about to agree to that kind of advantage.

"Under the highway," Bernardo says, proud face watching theirs.

Ice considers. Good cover, well lit, no cops. Yes. Riff thrusts his hand out; they shake again.

Things are really moving now, and as Riff calls for weapons, Ice feels relief. At this rate, they'll be able to settle up, get out of here, and plan. He doesn't trust being in this small space with the Sharks; either they'll make a move or Krupke will come sniffing around again, and to be honest, Ice isn't sure which would be worse. The former, Ice supposes, taking a drag on his cigarette, because Krupke would just be a nuisance. An attack in close quarters, however, would be more than that.

But everything changes when Ice hears a happy, excited voice he knows very well.

"Doc! Hey, Doc!"

Ice, along with everyone else, glances at the door to see Tony burst in, flushed and full of energy. The hell, thinks Ice in disgust, that's the last time they post Gee-Tar as lookout. What is he doing facing_away_ from the window? A little warning would have been nice.

Tony stops still as he sees the gangs clustered in the back and an eager Riff, who perks up and waves his hand at his friend. "Tony!"

Action, however, focuses on Bernardo, whose angry gaze is glued on Tony. Right, Ice remembers; Tony, at the dance, had been with Bernardo's sister. "Weapons," pushes Action. And again, when Bernardo doesn't respond. "_Weapons_!"

Bernardo, turning back around, makes an obvious effort to return to the present problem, raising his hands in surrender. "Weapons."

"You call," offers Riff shrewdly. Ice, watching him, remembers his earlier words: _I wanna hold it like we always held it—with skin_. Riff knows that if that's what he calls, though, he'll look like a chicken. So he puts it on the Sharks. Smart, but risky.

"Your challenge," says Bernardo, and Ice, masking his surprise, wonders if the Shark leader is thinking the same thing.

Riff lets out a small chuckle. "Afraid to call?"

At this, the Jets snicker, and Bernardo's narrowed eyes dart over in the direction of the gathered Sharks. When at last he opens his mouth, his usually-smooth voice is tight. "Rocks."

Riff doesn't hesitate. "Belts."

"Pipes."

Their words move faster and faster as the two find a rhythm and escalate to bricks, bats, clubs, chains, gaining steam. Neither leader wants to look weak in front of two different gangs. And Ice, lowering his eyes to stare at the table, dismisses the idea of a skin-to-skin rumble. Forget that, he thinks, it's not going to happen now. All they can hope for is that they don't end up fighting with—

"Bottles, knives, guns!" interrupts Tony derisively, striding over. Ice and every other boy in the room stares at him as he yanks his jacket off. "What a coop fulla _chickens_."

"Who _you_ callin' chicken?" challenges Action as Tony crosses back over behind the pinball machine.

"Every dog knows his own," suggests Bernardo, lifting his hands in amusement.

Tony ignores the Shark. "l'm callin' you all chicken," he declares. Leaning in over the pinball machine, his gaze moves from boy to boy, dancing feverishly. His voice quiets. "Big tough buddy boys gotta throw bricks, huh? 'Fraid to get in close? 'Fraid to slug it out? 'Fraid to use _plain skin_?"

What the hell is Tony doing? Ice wonders for the second time that night, furrowing his brow. If he's got some plan up his sleeve—and for his sake, he'd better—Ice can't figure out what it is.

Snowboy wrinkles his nose. "Not even garbage?"

"That ain't a rumble!" protests Action.

"Who says?" Riff scoffs. Ice isn't too surprised to hear the guarded support in his leader's voice. Riff has always been the closest to Tony, and chances are that if Tony does have a plan, Riff will be on board in a minute. As will Ice, if it's any good.

Bernardo turns accusingly toward Riff. "You said 'call weapons.'"

And Tony is back over to their table in a minute, eyes sparking, intense as he talks fast and hard. "A rumble can be clinched by a fair fight. If you've got the guts to risk that." He pauses, and Ice, watching the effect Tony's words have on the gang members, is impressed. This is the old Tony, who always knew exactly how to get his way. He still can't figure out, though, _why_ Tony is pushing for a fair fight. "Best man from each gang to slug it out."

Bernardo's eyes gleam as he rises silently to his feet; he abruptly changes tack. "I would _enjoy_ to risk that. Okay, fair fight."

The two gangs erupt in protest, clamoring for something, anything more than just plain old boring vanilla one-on-one. Ice, though he doesn't get up, isn't happy either. He is all for fighting with fists, sure, but not like this. For one thing, his day is always better when he gets to flatten some punks, and for another, the Sharks have been asking for a beating for months now and for the Jets not to be able to give it, well, that just doesn't sit nice with him.

"Wait a minute!" Riff cautions, springing to his feet. "The _commanders_ say yes or no." Ice watches, hardly able to believe it as the Jet leader meets Bernardo's eyes and extends his hand. "Fair fight."

The Shark leader hurriedly shakes Riff's hand, then whips around to face a retreating Tony. "When I get through with you," he says, voice tight and triumphant, "you will be like a fish after skinning."

But Ice barely hears him. He, Action, A-Rab, all the Jets nearest to Riff are too busy giving their captain incredulous looks. Riff, though, gestures for them to wait and eyes his lieutenant. Ice relaxes. Riff, he is sure, knows what he's doing, and Ice, at least, will be able to flatten _one_ Shark.

"Your best man fights _our_ best man," interrupts Riff extra-politely as Bernardo turns around, "and, ah—_we_ pick 'im," the Jet leader finishes, clapping his hand on Ice's shoulder. The lieutenant finally stands, relishing the shocked, wary look the Shark gives him. That's right, he thinks, sending back a challenging stare. Get ready to rumble, Spic.

The PR isn't happy, that's for sure, and whips around to glare at Tony. Beyond wanting to get him for dancing with his sister, Bernardo probably figures Tony would be a pushover. After all, Tony is a nice-looking guy, and it's hard to believe his fists live up to his street reputation when his face is so wide-eyed and earnest. Ice, on the other hand, has never been accused of looking too nice. Bernardo narrows his eyes. "But I thought I would be fighting with—"

"You shook on it," Riff reminds him. In their world, where shaking hands is as good as your name or better, going back on a deal between gangs like this is not exactly a great idea. And Bernardo, scornful as he might be of the American ways of doing business, knows that, at least. He sighs in frustration and drops his hands.

"Yes," the Shark leader says, giving Tony another murderous look, teeth gritted, "I _shook_ on it."

And Action, forever itching for a fight, bursts forward. "Look, Bernardo, if you wanna change your mind, we can still—"

A sharp, urgent whistle from a for-once alert Gee-Tar, and the gangs instantly shift, intermingle, again united against a common foe. Ice, thrusting the cigarette back into his mouth, swaps seats with Pepe as Riff pulls out a pack of cards and hurriedly divvies them up. All around them, Jets are buddying up with Sharks; Baby John is showing the shortest Shark his Captain Marvel comic, while Snowboy and A-Rab are clustered around the checkerboard with a skinny Shark who looks maybe fifteen. And Action, predictably, is firing darts at the board with a dark-skinned, heavy-lidded Shark. None of them except the boys closest to the window knows who it is, but no one is taking any chances tonight.

"Hey, Bernardo, baby, wouldja like a cigarette?" asks Riff, flashing a winning grin as he reaches for the pack in his jacket.

"No, thanks, I don't smoke," replies Bernardo, deliberately raising his voice to be heard over the crowd.

"We want Cokes all around, man," snickers Pepe, and Ice, his back to the door, rolls his eyes.

"I don't smoke," Bernardo repeats, softer, before giving his lieutenant an amused half-smile. "_I_ would like a Coca-Cola."

Ice glances at him. _Now_ he wants a Coke, he thinks, not immune to the irony of the situation. Well, the kid's got a sense of humor, he grudgingly admits for the second time that day. Any funnier and he'd be a stand-up comedian.

"Evening, Lieutenant," greets Doc half-heartedly over the tramping footfalls of the new arrival. "I an' Tony was just closin' up."

Great, thinks Ice with disgust, Schrank. Just who they need.

The lieutenant ignores him. "Well! Now," he says, sounding pleased-as-punch, "this is more like it, fellas. Warms me all over to see you this way. And after only a coupla words from me at the playground this afternoon; how about that?" Ice keeps his head down, concentrating on his cards. Ace of spades, he notices distractedly, queen of hearts. A jack, a ten—both spades—and a two, hearts again. Too bad they're not actually playing. "Oh. D'you mind?"

"I have no mind," mumbles Doc. Ice, gaze still on his cards, doesn't know what Schrank's talking about, but he doubts it would matter, anyway. "I'm the village idiot."

Schrank goes on, his voice light, but he's not fooling anyone. "Y'know, headquarters hears about this, I may even get a promotion. Good deal all around, hey, Bernardo?" the lieutenant asks, voice tinged with derision. His heavy footsteps draw nearer and Ice, taking a drag of his cigarette, can hear that Schrank is right behind him. "I get a promotion—you Puerto Ricans get what _you've_ been itchin' for. Use of the playground, use of the gym…. The streets—the candy store." And then he pauses just behind Bernardo, and in the silence, his next words drop like a bomb. "So what if they do turn this whole town into a stinkin' pigsty?"

Bernardo flashes up like lightning, and Ice grabs his arm—if the Spic is going to get bloodied, he'd rather do it himself, because there is no satisfaction whatsoever in Schrank getting the pleasure—before Riff and Pepe join him in settling the Shark leader back down.

"Hey, don't stop him," laughs Schrank. "He wants to get home—write a few letters to San Juan, tell 'em how he's got it _made_ over here! What I mean is—" his voice rises to a snarl— "clear out, you!" And without any warning at all, the lieutenant sends Bernardo's chair crashing to the floor. "I said, _clear out_!"

There is absolute silence as each and every one of them stares at the lieutenant.

Schrank lets out a mocking chuckle. "Oh, yeah, sure, I know. It's a free country, an' I ain't got the right." His voice drops to a slow, scornful growl. "But I got a _badge_. What do _you_ got? Things're tough all over. _Beat it_!"

Ice's brow knits the slightest bit. Sure, he doesn't like the PRs, but he likes Schrank even less, and if anyone is going to clear the Sharks out, it's going to be the _Jets_, not some police officer with an jumped-up sense of his own importance. This territory is theirs to hold. Not his.

Bernardo stares Schrank down for what feels like an hour, resentment etched in the lines of his back. Then he deliberately straightens his jacket and glances at Riff, who gives him a slight nod before Bernardo turns back around, snaps his fingers, and leads the Sharks out of Doc's. They file out quietly, but as they reach the door, Ice hears a sharp, whistled melody that he vaguely recognizes: "America." And Ice, returning his cards to Riff, raises an eyebrow. He has to hand it to him yet again—that Bernardo guy _does_ have a sense of humor. Even if he doesn't seem to get that Puerto Ricans don't exactly qualify as Americans.

With the Sharks gone, Schrank adopts a friendlier tone. "Okay, fellas," he says, picking up the fallen chair as the Jets resettle themselves. "Where's the rumble gonna be?"

Dead silence, broken only by the _zip_ of Riff shuffling his cards.

"Come on," says Schrank, "I know regular Americans don't rub with the gold-teeth unless somethin's gonna—"

"Look, Lieutenant," begins Tony in a conciliatory tone, "why don't you let—"

"_You shut your mouth_," barks Schrank. Once again, an uneasy quiet settles over the store. Schrank, perhaps sensing this, tries a different tactic. "Come on, Baby John," he says, softer, turning to their youngest member. Ice, head whipping around, guesses he's trying to act all paternal, and judging from what Ice remembers of his own father, he's not far off the mark. Schrank rests his hand on the wall next to Baby John's head. "Before that smooth little kisser-a yours gets cut-up for life. Now, where's it gonna be? The river?"

Baby John darts a quick, pleading look at A-Rab, who shakes his head in warning.

"The Park?"

Baby John gives a helpless shrug. Not great, thinks Ice with a small smile, watching the kid's reaction, but better than he'd been expecting.

"Look, fellas, I'm for _you_!" Schrank tries next, turning around to face them all. Ice, along with every other Jet he can see, turns his head away. Keep saying that, he thinks darkly, and someday you might believe it. Sure.

But Schrank keeps going. "I want this beat cleaned up, and you can do it for me!"

Ice glances at him in derision. Does he really think they're that stupid?

"I'll even lend a hand, if things get rough!"

Apparently so.

"The playground?" guesses Schrank, moving back to Baby John and Action, who just blows a cool stream of smoke into the lieutenant's face. So he tries Gee-Tar. "Sweeney's lot?"

But the only sound to be heard in the candy store is the crash and rattle of Tiger at the pinball machine. No one—not even Doc—is talking.

When Schrank opens his mouth again, it's clear his limited store of patience has run out. "Why don't you get smart, you stupid hooligans?" he snarls. "I oughta take you down to the station an' throw ya in the can, right now! You an' the tinhorn immigrant scum ya come from!"

And Ice whips around to glare at Schrank as the tension in the candy store grows thicker. Most of the Jets here right now come from at least partial immigrant families, Ice included. And for Schrank, with his hint of an accent, to act like they're dirt under his foot because of it, well, _that_ is over the fucking line. It's not like they're Sharks, thinks Ice, face hard, at least the Jets were all _born_ here.

Keep hold of yourself, he reminds himself, turning back around. You've got better people to take out than a lousy police detective. And Schrank, figures Ice, can always be dealt with later.

But Schrank, it seems, has finally figured out a way to get a rise out of them, and pushes further. "How's your old man's DTs, A-Rab?" he asks pleasantly.

A-Rab stiffens, looks up, but Riff cautions him with an outstretched arm. Schrank, though, isn't done yet:

"How's the action on your mother's side of the street, Action?"

Ice, seeing Action explode out of his chair, doesn't think, just _moves_ to get a hold on Action before he can land one on the sonofabitch and send himself to the slammer. Tiger, Snowboy, A-Rab, Gee-Tar, even Baby John—all the other Jets besides Riff are there, too, desperately pushing Action back, thinking for him since he can't at the moment. Fucking Schrank, Ice curses, if Action _did_ tear him to pieces, it wouldn't be more than he deserved. But Schrank is right: he's got a badge. What do they have?

"You know, one of these days there won't be anybody to hold ya!" taunts Schrank, and Ice grits his teeth. On that day, he thinks, glancing back, Schrank had better pray he's not around because sure, Action will be dumped into juvie and maybe even worse, but that's small consolation for Schrank if Action murders him first.

"Come on, get him outta here!" Tony says urgently, helping them along as the Jets work to herd the raging boy through the narrow candy store and out into the close night air of the street. Action doesn't make it easy, fighting tooth and nail to go back and get his hands on Schrank, whose parting shot can just be heard from the store:

"Don't worry, l'll find out where it's gonna be," the lieutenant calls, "so be sure to finish each other off, because if ya don't—_l will_!"

And then they hear the slam of the door as Action redoubles his efforts to get away. "Lemme at him!" he snarls as Joyboy peels away from the nearby alley to join them. "I'm gonna rip his fat mouth out, just _leggo-a_ me, dammit!"

"Action, shut up," instructs Ice tersely as they shove Action around the block and out of sight of Doc's.

"What's with him?" Joyboy wants to know as he catches up with his brother. Ice, glancing at him, frowns. He'd thought Joyboy had left with Mouthpiece and Big Deal before the war council. Apparently not.

"Same's always," says Riff moodily, following after the rest of them. "Too much hot air an' nowhere to blow."

"It ain't just that lousy Schrank! Riff, what the hell was that in there?" demands the belligerent Jet, flinging off their restraining arms with a growl. "Fair fight? With just _him_?" He jerks his thumb at Ice, who blinks. "I know a lotta things that is, but what it ain't is _fair_. I don' wanna just sit around an' let Ice have all the fun, I wanna pound those dirty stinkin' Spics into the _ground_!"

There is a chorus of approval, and Ice, even though he's guaranteed to get his hands on at least one Shark, can't help agreeing. Skin, yes, but he still doesn't see the point of a fair fight, not one that only involves two people, anyhow.

"Cut it, Action," Riff says, passing his hand over his eyes. "Can't ya give it a rest, for once?"

"An' _Tony_! Lousy bastard ain't been here for more'n a month, an' all of a sudden he shows up an' orders us around?" Action goes on in disbelief. "What kinda game's he playin', huh? An' why're ya lettin him boss—"

"_Action_. Watch your mouth," Riff snaps. He glances at Tiger, who immediately digs out a cigarette, hands it over, and produces a light. Riff, taking a long, deep drag, faces Action. "What, ya really think that's gonna happen, buddy-boys? A fair fight?"

"But ain't that what we decided on?" Snowboy pipes up.

Riff rolls his eyes. "That's cute. Look, I don't trust them Sharks," he goes on, gesturing with his cigarette, "an' I don't think for a second them rotten Spics're gonna play by the rules. An' I don' know about you, buddy-boys, but I wanna be ready for when they double-cross us."

"Ya really think they will?" asks a doubtful Baby John, puckering up his face. "That ain't fair."

Riff gives a hard smile. "Kid, ya gotta learn that fresh-off-the-boat punks like the PRs don't give a hoot about what's _fair_. Why ya think they swam over here, anyway?"

"To ruin free enterprise," grumbles Action, savagely punching the air. Ice keeps his eyes on him. Action has cooled down a little, but they all know he can go from calm to blazing hot in a second. "Says my old man, anyhow."

"To make things tough on us poor _native boys_," confirms Riff with a sneer. "To crowd us outta our own streets an' send _us_ back to San Juan. _Well_. Like I said, I don't trust that kinda two-bit gang, so I ain't takin' a chance on 'em fightin' fair. When'd we say we was gonna rumble?"

"After dark," answers Ice. He, too, is not wasting his time holding his breath for the Sharks to play by the rules.

Riff considers this. "That's, what—nine? Okay, so we meet in the alley behind Doc's at half-past eight an' raid our armory. Load up. Belts, chains, bats, alla that good stuff." He grins. "Them PRs won't know what hit 'em."

Action eyes Riff for a wary moment, then snorts. "Good. I was beginnin' to wonder where _Riff_ went."

The Jet captain grins. "Right here, buddy-boy," he answers easily, "always will be." He winks. "Now I gotta go find the dame an' work myself into her good graces, so you kids get on outta here an' stay outta trouble, okay? Save it for tomorrow."

Ice lifts his hand in salute as Riff jogs off and the Jets consider their options.

"Movie?" suggests Baby John. "I got my allowance yesterday, an' I still got enough dough for that an' maybe popcorn."

A-Rab snorts. "Baby John, don'tcha know anythin'? Jets don't pay for movies, they sneak in."

Baby John thinks about this. "Oh. Right."

Action rolls his eyes. "Well, you kids go ahead an' do that, but I think I'll see what Pauline's up to." And he darts off into the night. Ice, watching him go, feels some relief that he won't be out, roaming the streets and getting up to who-knows-what. Action taking out his aggression on a ready and willing Pauline is much safer than him doing the same to someone a lot less welcoming and getting busted up the night before they'll need his rocket-punch.

Gee-Tar brightens as an idea visibly occurs to him. "Maybe I'll see if Clarice's still up."

Ice stifles a groan. Gee-Tar is nothing if not persistent. It's like watching someone run head-first into a wall, over and over again. "I don't think that'd be the best idea," he says. "Vee said Clarice was, uh—plannin' on gettin' in bed early tonight." Whatever else he's leaving out about certain other absent Jets, he thinks with a wry half-smile, at least that much is true.

Gee-Tar's shoulders sag. "Oh."

"You could try Julie," suggests Ice. "You know, the one who was dancing with _Big Deal_."

Gee-Tar perks up as the notion of sticking it to his former best friend presumably hits him. "Y'know, I think I will. Thanks, buddy!" And he does an abrupt about-face and trots off.

Ice, tossing a piece of Big Deal's citrus-flavored gum into his mouth, rolls his eyes. He doesn't know how his buddy stands it—if he were Big Deal, he thinks with a scowl, remembering that glimpse of Mouthpiece talking to Velma at the dance, he'd just knock Gee-Tar out and be done with it. It would be faster, and a hell of a lot simpler than letting Clarice jerk him around the way she does sometimes. In any case, though, good as a buddy as Big Deal is, it's not really Ice's business.

Baby John looks around at the five remaining Jets, an eager smile on his face. "So, movie?"

Snowboy smirks. "Can't; I'm thinkin' I'm gonna pay a visit to Priscilla. She was _all_ _over_ me at the dance." He glances at Joyboy. "Bro?"

His twin shrugs and unwraps a red lollipop. "Carole."

"Think she'll finally give it up?" asks Tiger with avid interest.

Joyboy heaves a deeply frustrated sigh, sticks the lollipop in his mouth and begins busily working on it. "God, I _hope_ so."

"Don't hold your breath, buddy-boy," advises Snowboy. "Priscilla said Carole's waitin' on the _M-word_."

As one, the Jets wince. Marriage. Ice has no idea why chicks go so crazy over it. After all, it's just a piece of paper and a bunch of words and a lot of crying. And it's ages and ages away for all of them. Sure, Ice thinks, he loves Velma, but _marriage_?

Baby John finally breaks the silence. "Tiger?"

The redhead shakes his head. "Susan," he explains, face turning pink. Well, thinks Ice, bemused, that does makes a kind of twisted sense. Tiger has hung around Graziella for years, and Ice could swear that Susan uses the exact same hair dye as her. It's so _bright_.

Baby John sighs. "A-Rab, ya ain't ditchin' me for Nanette or nothin', are ya?"

A-Rab pales at this mention of the girl he has told his buddies was a really, really bad date. "Nope. Movie's good."

Ice clears his throat. He doesn't see the attraction in Julie, Priscilla, Carole, Nanette, or any of the girls who hang around the Jets, but he does know what his buddies are after and that, at least, means they won't be getting themselves into trouble tonight."Yeah, well, you two have fun," he says, giving the remaining five Jets a wave and turning in the opposite direction. "I'm out."

Baby John waves back. "G'bye!"

"_Have fun_, Ice-man," A-Rab parrots with a smirk.

"At least _somebody_ will," grumbles a still-sullen Joyboy.

Ice rolls his eyes but doesn't stop. It takes ten minutes to get to Velma's apartment from here. Tonight, he's aiming for five.

.

"So what's the buzz?" Velma asks as he climbs through her open window and drops into her dimly-lit blue and white bedroom. She's sitting in front of her dresser dressed in not very much at all, brushing her hair. "You'n Riff gonna _ice_ those Sharks?" Velma doesn't turn around, but he can see her smirking in the mirror.

Ice crosses the room and lounges against the wall next to her with a chuckle, hands in his pockets. As always, he marvels at how remote her room seems from the streets outside—cool, quiet, well-kept. Not like the West Side he knows at all. "Cute, Vee. Tomorrow night. Your folks home?"

Velma keeps her blue eyes chastely on her reflection, and Ice, letting his own wander, wonders how long she's going to pretend that she doesn't want him just as much as he's wanted her all night. "Dad's still at the hospital, an' _Mamma's_ asleep. How's it goin' down?"

"Fair fight," he says evenly, gaze moving to her face. In the warm glow from her lamps, she looks softer, gentler. He wonders what she's been up to. "Best man, from each gang."

The only way Ice can tell that she's heard him is the faint tightening of her grip on her brush. "An' who're they?"

"Me'n Bernardo."

Velma closes her eyes, and Ice can see that her hand is clenched so tightly that her knuckles are white. Then she takes a deep breath and lowers the brush down to the vanity, before standing up to finally look at him. Ice tenses; the expression in her blue eyes tells him that she is not happy, not at all. But both of them know there is no use telling him that she doesn't want him to go, that she worries about him. Ice already knows everything she wants to say. And if he ever doubts that he is right, well, he doesn't let on because there is no point in that, either.

After a pause, Velma relaxes, her voice light. "Why you, ya big lunk?"

Ice matches her tone as he takes a step forward. "You know why, Vee." He half-smiles. "'Cause I'm the best."

She looks him up and down with a small, catlike smile. "Well, yeah, I knew that, but I didn't know _they_knew that."

Ice raises his eyebrows, letting out a chuckle, before moving purposefully toward her. Velma gasps as he grabs her, then relaxes into him as their lips meet and he presses her soft body into his. This is what he's been meaning to do, all night, from the moment he saw her at Graziella's, and oh, God, he wants her right now. Being around her—being _with_ her—never gets old, thinks Ice fuzzily as he runs his hands over her bare shoulders. Damn. How the hell did he get so lucky?

There's no Purity Patrol, no war-council to interrupt them this time, and when they finally break for air, she pulls back slightly with a sighing sound in the back of her throat that just about pushes him over the edge. Ice reaches for her again, eager to continue where they left off, but Velma puts a hand on his chest.

"You be careful, Daddy-O," she whispers, face serious. "I like these—" Velma touches his face, chest, arms, before looping her fingers around his belt— "just the way they are, right now. Don't you let that PR get a hold of 'em."

Ice half-smiles. "You got it, Vee."

The corner of her mouth quirks up into a reluctant smile of her own. "An' come right back here after, okay? Don't make me wait like tonight."

"Trust me, Vee," Ice says, pressing her closer. His vision is full of only her. "I been wantin' to be here all night."

And then he pushes her back onto her bed and neither of them have anything else to say at all.


	10. to hold the sky

Disclaimer: Feh, don't own anything except Ice's old Irish mother.

Note: Amazing how time flies, isn't it? We're officially at the halfway point of this fic, barring something drastic, and it's kind of hard for me to believe. And for those of you who know where this fic is headed (which should be most of you, since I assume you're reading WSS fanfiction for a reason), a confirmation: we've definitely wrapped up the happier half of this fic. Heh.

For: **HedgehogQuill**, **Megfly**, and **xXc0okieSsNcrEamXx**, for their encouraging reviews of the last chapter. And a special congratulations goes to both **HedgehogQuill** and **Megfly**, who both finished their fics of epic awesome in the last week. They're seriously good, btw, and if you want to read a quality story, definitely go check out _Now It Begins_ (WSS) and _Fortune's Winds_ (_Titanic: A New Musical_, though it's in the movie section). You won't regret it.

—viennacantabile

* * *

fell the angels

ten : to hold the sky

.

It was the beginning of a day in June; the deep blue sky unsullied by a cloud, and teeming with brilliant light. The streets were, as yet, nearly free from passengers, the houses and shops were closed, and the healthy air of morning fell like breath from angels, on the sleeping town.

—Charles Dickens, The Old Curiosity Shop

.

Ice is not, has never been a morning person, but as he wakes to pale sunlight and the sound of his mother's voice, he smiles.

He can't recall the last time his mother sang; he only remembers that she used to, all the time, and Ice, stretching out on his thin, narrow bed, takes it as a good sign that she's doing it today. Her voice is slow, wistful, and he's not sure of the words—it's not one of the Irish tunes imprinted in his memory, but something about bluebirds and rainbows and all that happy stuff—but what is important is that Ice can hear the smile in his mother's voice. It's good that she's happy, he thinks as he swings his feet to the floor, because for sure it's going to be a great day for all of them, too.

He can't wait to get this settled. It's been awhile since Ice has had a really good, all-out fight, and he's looking forward to showing those PR punks how dumb they are for even thinking they can match fists with his gang. The Jets have been running these streets for the past four years, and who are the Sharks? Just upstart immigrants who have no respect for everyone who was already here. Well, he thinks, pulling a green sweatshirt and chinos on with a small smile, we were here before you, and when you're gone, we'll _still_ be here. That's a promise.

Mrs. Kelly is in the small kitchen, making toast and still humming as he walks in. "Mornin', John."

"Mornin', Ma," Ice greets in return, easing himself down on one of the rickety wooden chairs he never fails to feel he is going to break someday. "Sleep well?"

His mother turns back to give him a smile. "Ah, fair enough."

"That's good," Ice says, the corners of his mouth turning up in return. Lately she's seemed happier, and he wonders if she is finally beginning to forget. "Listen, Ma," he continues, "I ain't gonna be back for awhile tonight, so don't wait up, okay?"

"Big day planned?" she asks, a touch of curiosity in her pale blue eyes as she puts a plate down on the table in front of him.

Ice, picking up his toast, nods. "Yeah, you could say that."

"Ye goin' out with Velma, then?" his mother goes on, face brightening. Mrs. Kelly loves Ice's girlfriend, and is forever urging her son to bring her over and make sure he hangs on to her and yeah, Ice plans on doing just that, but to hear her say it so often is a little nerve-racking. It's a little too close to what Riff tells him about Graziella hinting about settling down soon. It makes him feel—well, trapped. Boxed in, with no way out. Which is not something he normally associates with Velma.

Ice shifts in his seat. "Well…no." Mrs. Kelly glances at him, and Ice is reminded once again that he really needs to work on his lying skills. "I mean, I'm gonna see her, but we're not goin' _out_…"

"Oh," says his mother, giving him a mildly amused glance. "I see. What're ye doin', then?"

"Uh—well, I'm meetin' her at Doc's later," Ice says, scrambling for an answer. "An' then—I don' know, just hangin' out, I guess," he ends lamely, hoping that will be the end of it. But he has no such luck.

"Why don't ye bring her over for dinner?" Mrs. Kelly suggests with a smile. "Around six or seven, say."

A very uncomfortable Ice clears his throat. "I'm gonna be at Big Deal's for dinner, actually," he says, going for and failing at nonchalance. He's really probably just going to pick up a sandwich or something with Riff a few hours before the rumble—it's not exactly intimidating to heave up your dinner at the first punch to the stomach—but she doesn't need to know that. "An' I think Vee's gonna be home."

Mrs. Kelly studies the table. "Oh," she says again, but this time it's soft and quiet. Just as Ice wonders if it's okay to bolt yet, she directs serious eyes toward him. "What is it, John?"

Ice nearly chokes on his toast. "What?"

"There's somethin' the matter," his mother persists. "I can see it."

Ice takes a gulp of milk, for once wishing that his mother didn't care so much about her son, and shrugs. "Nothin', Ma. Don't worry."

She stares at him for a moment, then glances away. "It's somethin' with the Jets, isn't it," she sighs. "I know 'tis."

Ice shrugs again, quite helplessly. "Don't worry about it," he repeats, swallowing the last of his breakfast. "I can take care-a myself."

"I know ye can," she murmurs as he gets to his feet. "But all the same, ye'll be careful, won't ye?"

Ice, depositing his plate in the sink, barely hears her. "Yeah, sure, Ma. Just don't wait up, okay?" That done, he moves to exit the kitchen when her next question stops him short:

"Does she know?"

Ice takes a deep breath. He remembers that long silence from the night before, the anxiety in that quiet kiss goodbye just before dawn. She knows, just as every other Jet's girl does, or soon will. But he doesn't see why it matters. This is just gang business—just a rumble. And the thing about Velma is that she's always seemed sort of separate from all of that. Distanced, not connected to those other pieces of his life that don't belong in any kind of world with her in it. She knows, yes, but she is not a part of it. And, he hopes, thinking of what it means to be a gang member's girl, she never will be.

"Look, Ma," he begins, but she is quick to interrupt him with a light hand on his arm.

"The truth, now," and as Ice turns around to see her uneasy face and worried eyes he feels a slight pang of guilt. He wishes there were some way to let his mother know that she doesn't have to worry about him. That everything will be fine. But even if there were without mentioning the rumble, she wouldn't believe it. So the next best thing he can do is what she asks: tell her the truth.

"If," he says, letting the air out of his lungs in one big gust, "there _was_ somethin' goin' on today with the Jets—somethin' important—yeah, she'd know about it, Ma." He shakes his head. "Even if I ever wanted to lie to her, she'd figure it out anyway, so not much point in that."

Mrs. Kelly studies his face for a moment, then gives him a small smile. "S'pose that's why I like her so much, then."

Ice chuckles before he can stop himself. "Yeah," he says, patting his mother on the shoulder, "me, too." He hesitates before giving her a brief, tentative embrace. It'll be awhile before he sees her again, anyway, and just in case—

But Ice banishes the thought as quickly as it comes. Nothing is going to happen tonight, he thinks as he turns to leave, except the Jets proving, once and for all, why they are the best gang in the city.

As he heads back to his room, Mrs. Kelly gives a rueful smile. "Couldn't ye go out the front like all the normal borin' people, John?"

Ice has to laugh. "This's West Side, Ma," he reminds her. "There ain't any normal people here, anyway."

.

Once he is out of that cramped, bare apartment and clambering down the iron bars of the fire escape, Ice breathes a sigh of relief. Happier or not, it hasn't gotten easier for his mother to accept that he will be out at all hours of the night with the Jets, and at the same time, it's gotten even harder for him to skip out on her without feeling like he's trampling on something very small and defenseless. She is still lonely, he knows. As well as sad. And not for the first time, Ice shakes his head. He knows who is responsible for that.

But now is not the time to be worrying about his mother. Though the morning is still cool, summer heat is already rising from the concrete pavement and Ice, shading his eyes from the light, wonders exactly what time it is and how many of the Jets will be awake. None of them get up any earlier than they have to, for good reason—after all, they spend half their nights patrolling their territory—and Ice wouldn't be up, either, except for the fact that sleep is an impossibility now. No, thinks Ice, sleep will be a long time coming today. He half-smiles. And isn't he looking forward to that.

There is no other place to go but Doc's; even if no one else is there, he can wait for the others. The candy store is their de facto headquarters, and if anything is going to happen before the rumble—good, bad, or indifferent—that is where it will be. Riff and Tony will show up for sure, for one reason or another, along with the rest of the Jets. And somehow, Velma always seems to know when he is there.

His mind made up, Ice cuts across town through the alleys and streets he knows so well, long legs covering the distance with smooth, sure speed. Every turn and doorway holds a memory for him—ambushing Hawks, dodging cops, grabbing a bite to eat on the go, all with the Jets—and propels him forward. He is confident, steady, at ease. The sun is shining and the sky is bright and it's going to be a good day.

.

As he pushes the door open, Ice squints in the sudden darkness of the candy store. Doc is behind the counter, as usual, and if he's not mistaken, Tony is there, too, restocking the boxes in the window.

"Hiya, Ice," calls Tony, giving a sunny, cheerful wave.

Ice darts a curious glance at him. "Hey, Tony. Doc," he adds, nodding at the slight old man. "How ya doin'?"

Tony gives him a grin so bright it's blinding. "Just great, buddy-boy. Took a trip to the stars last night, an' man, oh man, am I still flyin' high."

Ice blinks. Tony's always talked in riddles and rainbows but this is a little much, even for him. "What've _you_ been takin'?"

Tony, reaching into a box, just laughs and tosses him a candy bar over his shoulder. "You wouldn't understand, Ice." His gaze flicks back over to his friend. "Or maybe ya would; I don't know."

"This about the rumble?" Ice asks with a half-smile as he unwraps the chocolate bar and takes a bite. Maybe Tony isn't so far gone after all, he thinks, if he still remembers what that high is like. "'Cause I didn't think you remembered what that felt like, Daddy-O."

The grin on Tony's face falters, to be replaced by an even happier smile. "Nah, I'm done with rumbles, Ice-man. What I'm talkin' about—it's like walkin' on air, straight on up to heaven. Like nothin' I've ever felt before. _That's_ what I'm talkin' about."

Ice watches him, puzzled. Tony's blue eyes are so far away he looks like he's in a waking dream, almost like those religious types he sees on the corner every Sunday. "What _are_ ya talkin' about?"

"Him? Oh, he's in love," observes Doc dryly as Ice glances at him, startled. "You think this is bad, you shoulda seen him before ya came in. 'Doc,' he says when he walks in, 'y'know, I feel like the world is this great big shinin' star come down from the sky, just for me. It's a miracle.'" The old man turns his gaze to Tony and shakes his head. "The world's gone mad, all right, when a boy like you talks like that."

Laughing, Tony straightens up and leans on the counter. "Doc, can ya blame me? Ice, you saw her," he adds, face taking on a look of wonder. "The most beautiful girl I ever saw in all my life. _Maria_."

And now Ice remembers, and frowns. The PR girl. Bernardo's sister. "Ya mean ya weren't just dancin' with her?"

Tony laughs. "Dancin'? Feels like I been dancin' all night. Like I said, buddy-boy, I took a trip up to the stars yesterday, an' I ain't never felt so good in my life. Never."

Ice eyes his friend. Tony has always had that tendency to talk big, he thinks again, but never quite like this. Ice doesn't know how to respond. "Sounds nice."

"You gotta know what I mean, right, Ice?" sighs Tony, eyes bright. "How ya never saw a girl ya liked for real—for _keeps_—before, but when ya did, it was like the whole world lit up, right in front-a ya, when ya never even knew it was there. An' everythin' made sense and it was like ya never knew anythin' before an' there wasn't _nothin'_ you couldn't do. _Nothin'_." He settles back and puts his chin in his hands with a sigh. "I been waitin' my whole life for that kinda feeling, an' here it was all along, just around the corner. Waitin' for _me_." He glances at Ice. "You know what I mean, don't ya?"

"Well, yeah," Ice says, because like it or not, it does sound familiar. He remembers a night when the moon was so bright he could see the girl in front of him and look straight into the future and feel that for once in his life, everything was going to be okay. "'Course I do."

Except, he thinks, there's one key difference. Velma isn't a Shark's sister, isn't a Shark's girl. And Ice is not a Jet on the other side of the fence looking through at something that doesn't belong to him and never will.

But Tony, clearly not thinking about any of this, grins. "Then you know I got better things to think about tonight than a rumble," he says, picking up a candy bar of his own and tearing the wrapper open. After chewing for a moment, he sets it back down again and laughs, shaking his head. "Jesus, Ice, I can't get over it. _Maria_."

Ice, still bemused, glances at Doc with a smile that is only half-kidding. "Ya sure he ain't been takin' somethin'?"

Doc just shrugs. "The oldest drug there is, Ice. 'F I could bottle it, I'd make a fortune." He tosses his rag at Tony. "Do me a favor an' take over for a sec. I wanna talk to your buddy here."

Tony, whistling a few notes, catches the rag and begins working the counter. Ice shakes his head and takes a seat on his usual chair behind the pinball machine. Right now, he's not up on the moon like Tony, but he's still feeling good enough so that his oldest friend acting funny doesn't bother him too much. It's not until Doc moves to stand in front of him that the old man's words register.

Ice eyes him, wary. For an adult, he supposes, Doc isn't so bad. He does get a little preachy sometimes, yeah, but Ice doesn't know too many grown-ups who wouldn't call the cops every time the Jets walked through the door. And Doc, no matter how many times he tells them they should go the straight and narrow and all that, never does. Still, though, that doesn't mean he's looking forward to what the old man is almost guaranteed to say. "Whaddaya wanna talk to me for, Doc?"

"You're almost as happy as him," says Doc, waving toward his helper. "I mean, you're actually talkin', so I figure somethin's gotta be doin' it, right? What is it? Your girl?"

Ice can't help a half-smile. "What, I ain't always happy?"

Doc shakes his head. "Not like this."

Ice shrugs. "What's it matter?"

"Well," says Doc, faded eyes earnest, "look, whatever's makin' ya happy—don't ya wanna hold on to it? This kid, here—" he gestures back at Tony— "he got out, an' look at him. He ain't doin' so bad for himself, is he?"

Ice laughs as Tony darts a smirk at him. "Maybe the Jets is what makes me happy, Doc. Ever stop to figure that?"

"Yeah," says Doc, face serious, "an' what I figure's that all these years with the Jets, how come I ain't never seen ya grinnin' like ya are now?"

Ice's smile slips, just a little. "It's a good day, 's all," he says. "We're rumblin'. Cleanin' out the Sharks, an' I get to do it. 'Course I'm happy."

But Doc won't let up. "You're what—eighteen? Nineteen?" he asks. "You gonna keep playin' with the Jets all your life? I thought you was smarter than that, Ice."

Ice waves him off. "Doc—"

"An' your girl," Doc goes on, "I bet she don't like this—"

Ice frowns at the old man. Why does everyone keep bringing Velma up? "She knows I'm a Jet, an' she's fine with it," he says, on edge. "She don't have nothin' to do with it."

Doc shakes his head. "That's where you're wrong," he says, and sighs.

Ice leans back in his chair, unsettled. "Look, Doc," he says, "you heard last night, or Tony told ya, I bet. Tonight I'll take Bernardo an' everything will be over an' done with. Just fine. What's your worry?"

Doc just shrugs. "Anytime it sounds that simple, it usually ain't."

Ice looks away. Maybe it isn't for Doc, he thinks, but for the Jets, that's a different story. After tonight, the Jets will be number one again and no one will even remember the Sharks. Ice knows it as well as he knows his own name, and every other Jet does, too.

"Look, Ice, I just want ya to know you got options, y'know?" the old man goes on, leaning forward. "You got a future; you can—"

Ice grins, suddenly amused again. "What, ya gonna gimme a job like that poor schmuck?" He jerks his head at Tony, who just rolls his eyes at Ice and continues wiping down the counter.

Doc shakes his head. "Nah, what with your friend here, I got all the help I can afford." He pauses. "But if a job's what you want, I could maybe lend a hand."

Ice, drumming his fingers on the scarred wooden table, laughs. "Yeah? How?" He's not actually serious—sure, maybe someday he'll have to get a job just like all the other grown-ups, but hell, that day is a long, long time away. Ice is nineteen, old enough to drink and get married and Jesus, even have _kids_ if he's crazy enough (he's not) but to every adult who looks at him, he's just a kid himself. What would he do with a _job_?

"I don't know," says Doc, faded eyes earnest. "But I got a coupla friends I could call. A deliveryman, a clerk, a constru—"

Ice laughs out loud. "A clerk? Me? Doc, ya got more faith in me than my own ma, an' that's sayin' somethin'. You oughta see how my homework looked in school."

"When the hell did ya ever do homework?" asks Tony, poking his head up. His blue eyes are dancing with laughter. "Miracle ya even graduated at all with the resta us numbskulls, an' that was with a year extra."

Ice matches Tony's grin with a smile of his own. Graduated. It's true, he thinks, still a bit amazed, he did. It's more than anyone except his mother—and probably Velma—ever expected of the gang member and his straight C's. Especially since he'd already had to repeat junior year, what with all the school he'd skipped during the months he'd lived with Tony. But high school is one thing, a job is another, and some stupid diploma doesn't exactly mean he's the kind of guy to sit in an office all day. Doc should know that.

"Well, somethin' else, then," the old man insists. "You name what you wanna be, an' I bet I can call someone up."

Ice just chuckles and props his chin on his hand. "Sure. How about a Jet, then?"

Doc sighs and shares a look with Tony. "Yeah," he says in a low voice, "I got one-a those, too."

"How's that workin' out for ya?" asks an amused Ice, darting a glance at Tony. He is surprised to note that his friend looks serious for once.

"Maybe ya oughta listen to him," says Tony, gaze earnest. "Think about it, y'know?" He hesitates. "The Jets—they're great, but…they ain't everythin', Ice."

Ice blinks, flummoxed, and polishes off his candy bar instead of replying. Tony is the one who, with Riff, _started_ the Jets. And now he's gone beyond dropping them and is actually telling Ice to think about quitting? Getting a job like him and not being a Jet anymore? He's so staggered that he can't speak. How can Tony, of all people, say that?

"C'mon, Ice," Doc urges. "You got so much life aheada ya. Don't waste it."

Before Ice can answer, the doorbell rings and Riff bounds in. "Hey, Doc, ya seen—" He stops when he notices the three of them there, and his grin flicks on like a light. "Tony! Whatta sight for sore eyes!" His gaze shifts to his lieutenant. "An' Ice-man! You're up bright 'n early."

The sight of a grinning, confident Riff is enough to reassure Ice that everything is fine, that Tony's just got his head in the clouds on account of some girl he'll probably forget in a week. He'll be back with them soon, and everything will be okay, because being a Jet, remembers Ice, is for life. "Don't worry about me, Doc. I can handle myself."

The old man sighs heavily. "That's what I'm worried about," he mutters, before retreating into the back room. Ice, eyes on Riff, barely hears him.

"Hey, Daddy-O."

"Hiya, Ice," Riff returns with a cheery wave, plopping down on a chair across from him. "You ready to rock it tonight?"

Ice smiles, feeling his adrenaline spike at his captain's words. "You bet."

"Man," says Riff with an infectious grin, "we're finally doin' it, huh? Runnin' the Sharks out. About time, huh, Tony?" he adds, looking at his best friend. When Tony doesn't answer, Riff shrugs and turns back to Ice. "Look, so last night when I left Graz's place, I got to thinkin'—after we clean up the PRs, I figure we might need to start addin' onto our turf. Gettin' more space. The Jets ain't gettin' any smaller, y'know, 'specially not if Mouthpiece's ma's right about him." He laughs. "I got _plans_ for the Jets, buddy-boy."

Ice nods. The future seems so far away to him that it's hard to imagine anything right now but leaning back in his chair in this hot dusty store, waiting for the sun to set. "Well," he says, "you got all the Jets behind ya, that's for sure."

Riff grins. "Knew I could count on ya, buddy-boy." He glances at Tony, who messing with something behind the counter. "What about you? Ya in? Or are ya thinkin'-a shackin' up with the _señorita_ an' settin' up house?" He chuckles. "I gotta say, I can't picture ya runnin' around with a buncha half-Mexican kiddies."

Tony doesn't smile. "Riff, that ain't funny."

"Sure it is," says Riff, giving his best friend a playful punch on the shoulder. "You'd look _godawful_ in a sombrero."

Ice, watching his former captain, can see the muscles in Tony's jaw ripple and clench. Riff is just kidding, but it is clear that this girl—Maria—is anything but a joke to Tony. And Ice wonders for the first time if this is serious. If Tony means what he says when he talks about being in love for keeps. And if he is—what does that mean for the Jets?

After a moment, Tony sighs and shakes his head. "I'm gonna go check up on stock in the back," he says, and disappears into the darkness of the cellar.

Riff, still grinning, raises an eyebrow. "What's with him?"

Ice shrugs. "Doc says he's in love. An' I gotta say, I think he might be right."

"Aww, it'll pass," says Riff easily. "'S like a tummyache. Ya whine an' moan 'cause it hurts like a mother, but then ya take the magic pill an' it goes away just like that an' ya can't believe you was so sick in the first place."

Ice glances at the Jet captain. "You ever been in love, Daddy-O?"

Riff shudders. "Why, is it catchin'? You better watch it, Ice-man, you're startin' to sound like one-a the chicks talkin' about _feelings_."

Ice, embarrassed, shrugs. "Just thought maybe I'd ask."

Riff plops his chin on his hand and appears to consider this. "Well, what's it feel like?"

Ice is surprised to find himself repeating Tony's words. "Like…nothin' you ever knew," he says reluctantly, remembering that sense of wonder. "Like ya didn't know what happy was before." He knows how sappy and stupid this sounds—after all, he didn't buy it when Tony was spouting it, either—and prepares himself to meet some well-deserved heckling, but to his surprise, the Jet captain is silent. Ice glances over to see him settled back in his seat, looking deep in thought. And when Riff finally meets his lieutenant's eyes, it's with a contemplative expression foreign to his face.

"Nah," he says, and his voice sounds strange. "I don't guess I've ever been in love, then."

"Oh," says Ice. He wonders if Graziella knows this.

The silence is broken by Riff clearing his throat. "I'd ask you the same, buddy-boy," he says, a rueful smile on his face, "but seein's how I already know, well…"

Ice half-smiles. "You ain't off the hook for that yet, y'know."

Riff mirrors his expression. "One-a my better ideas, puttin' you two kids together."

Ice snorts, remembering the real reason Riff brought him along on that double-date almost a year ago. "'Cause ya just _knew_ it'd work, did ya?"

Riff just grins. "Well, it did, didn't it?"

And Ice has to laugh. "Yeah. It did."

Riff smiles again, and glances out the window at the street, brown eyes unseeing. He is quiet for a long time before he appears to come to a decision.

"Look," he says, turning back to Ice, "do _you_ think there's somethin' out there's better'n the Jets?"

"'Course not," Ice answers automatically, puzzled. "What could be better'n the Jets?"

"That's what I said, yesterday," says Riff, frowning. "But he just kept goin' on about it. An' that was _before_ he met that Puerto Rican chick."

"Oh," says Ice with a sigh. "I don' know. Who knows what Tony's thinkin' nowadays?"

Riff shrugs. "Not me," he says, and Ice thinks that he sounds a little sad. To Riff, he supposes, Tony had it all—leadership of the Jets, a mother, a best friend, just about any girl he wanted—and he just walked away. He wanted something more. Something different. And Riff, who has shared just about everything else in Tony's life, can't understand this at all. For that matter, neither can Ice.

"Hey, Riff," he says. He wonders what it was that led Tony to the point where his best friend doesn't recognize him. If there is something Tony—and even Doc—knows that none of them do. "D'ya ever think about the future?"

Riff laughs, seemingly at ease again. "Who, me? Ice, y'know I don't think further'n what I'm havin' for lunch." He smirks. "Pizza, if ya really wanna know."

Ice leans back in his chair, reassured in spite of himself. Riff, at least, he thinks, will never change, will always be that guy you can count on to cheer you up and talk you into giving him the shirt off your back in a snowstorm and thinking you're burning up the whole time. He smiles. "Sounds good."

"Yeah," agrees Riff, eyes crinkling in a grin. "Now, ah—today's a big day, an' we gotta make sure we come out on top." Digging in his back pocket, he takes out a cigarette and lights it. "Not that I got any doubts in ya—if I did, I wouldna picked ya—but I been thinkin' about the way that PR fights, an' I know how you can beat him, easy. Okay?"

"Okay," says Ice, leaning forward. "Lemme hear it."

But just as they're beginning to draw up a plan of attack for the rumble, the bell over the door lets out a noisy jangle, and a certain redhead announces her arrival:

"_Riffy-poo_!"

Riff, rolling his eyes, grins. Reaching over, he claps a hand on Ice's shoulder. "That's my cue, buddy-boy. I'm gonna go see if I can talk some sense into Tony." And without another word, he jumps up and dashes around the pinball machine and through the back door just as Graziella reaches the counter.

The redhead's mouth drops open. "Did he just—?

"I think so," Ice says, but his eyes are fixed on the blonde who is not far behind her. Velma is dressed in blue and green—a Jet's girl if there ever was one—and as always, Ice can't help the slow smile that comes over his face as he sees his girlfriend. Out of sight, mostly out of mind, but when she's there he can't imagine how he's lasted so long without her.

"Well," huffs Graziella, "I'm gonna go tell him it ain't polite to walk out on your own girl. If he's thinkin'-a gettin' his jollies tonight after the rumble, he'd better learn some manners!" And with that, she flounces after Riff and slams the door behind her with a bang.

In the silence that follows, Velma crosses the distance between them and comes to a stop just in front of him. "Hi," she says. Her voice is light but her eyes are clouded and he knows that she is worried. Don't be, he wants to tell her. Everything is going to be fine.

Ice reaches for her hand, pulls her down onto her lap and breathes in. She smells like vanilla and cake and all the sweet things he's ever tasted. "Hi."

He knows it's not going to last, that soon Riff and Graziella will come back and then the real planning will begin and he won't have a chance to be alone with Velma until later. But for the moment, she is here and he is happy and it's the greatest feeling in the world. Better than anything. And it's in the back of his mind, even as Ice doesn't let himself think it. Maybe even better than being a Jet.


	11. like there's a war on

Disclaimer: At the bottom.

Note: For a long time I wasn't sure if this chapter would get posted on time, but I've been working round the clock and here it is. I hope you enjoy it. :)

For: **Megfly**. She will see why. :)

—viennacantabile

* * *

fell the angels

eleven : like there's a war on

.

It was one of those hot, silent nights, when people sit at windows listening for the thunder which they know will shortly break; when they recall dismal tales of hurricanes and earthquakes; and of lonely travellers on open plains, and lonely ships at sea, struck by lightning.

—Charles Dickens, Martin Chuzzlewit

.

It was the women's tribute to the war. It taxes both alike, and takes the blood of the men, and the tears of the women.

—William Makepeace Thackeray, Vanity Fair

.

By the time Graziella tugs Riff back into the main room of Doc's, Velma has more or less gotten Ice to remember that they are in public and that they will have plenty of time for what's on his mind later. From the looks of it, Riff and Graziella have taken the opposite roles.

"Baby, just hold off 'til later, okay?" Riff says as he flops down onto the chair across from his lieutenant. "I got a fair fight to plan."

Graziella rolls her eyes as she snakes her arm across his shoulder and cuddles up to him. "But Riffy-puddin'—"

"Later." There's an edge to his voice that is just a touch sharper than usual, and Graziella, seeming to realize this, straightens up.

"C'mon, Vel," she sighs in a long-suffering tone. "Let's go sit somewhere else an' let the big bad Jets talk all by themselves."

"Good idea," says Riff, clearly distracted. He turns to Ice, who pats Velma on the waist and gives her an apologetic glance. The message is clear: they're not needed here. Velma shrugs, ignoring the sudden tightness in her throat, and follows Graziella over to the counter.

"Golly," says the redhead in an undertone as Riff swings his fist in animated demonstration, "will ya look at them? They got us; whadda they need a lousy street for?"

Velma nods her agreement without taking her eyes off Ice. He glances at her, and half-smiles before turning back to Riff. She can't hear what he is saying but she has a good idea of what it is, anyway. There are only so many ways you can plan to be the winner in a fair fight and if Velma is lucky they'll know all of them.

Graziella looks sideways at her. "Ya worried?" she asks quietly.

"Not _too_," Velma says, but it sticks in her throat midway through. Who the hell is she kidding? Of course she's worried. Whether or not it turns into something more than just a fair fight, it's all on Ice tonight and she wants desperately for him to win.

Graziella puts an arm around her shoulder. "Ice is a real tough guy. I an' you an' all the Jets know he's gonna pummel the PR good."

Velma clears her throat, nods. "Yeah, definitely." She can't take her eyes off him. Anyone else wouldn't be able to tell, but she can see Ice is wound up tight. She's only seen him like this once before—quiet, but jazzed up, nerves tight and bursting with energy, eyes sparking with that undercurrent of excitement just beneath the surface. Electric.

And after, well. Velma cracks a smile, watching the smooth lithe line of him ripple and settle back as he nods intently. She always likes the after.

It's on Graziella's mind, too. "Y'know," she says, a smirk playing around her lips, "I'm almost glad Riff didn't wanna get cozy before. A little anticipation makes _everythin'_ better."

Velma smiles. "You got big plans?"

The redhead smirks. "Don't everyone? Speakin'-a which," she says, raising her voice, "did ya get the you-know-what?"

Ice and Riff immediately perk up.

"What's that, baby?" calls Riff, a grin in his voice. "Didn't quite hear ya."

"Never you mind!" says Graziella triumphantly. "_You'll_ just have to wait to find out."

A very theatrical groan sounds from the back corner and Velma shares a giggle with her best friend before getting up and reaching onto a particular shelf. "I almost forgot. Where's Doc?"

"Went out for a smoke somewhere or somethin'," says Graziella, flapping her hand. "I couldn't tell; I was busy."

Velma laughs. She knows what kind of busy Graziella was, and she can definitely understand her distraction. "Okay. Ice, honey," she says, crossing over to the boys' table and digging through her purse, "if Doc ain't back before we leave, give this to him, will ya?"

"What's it for?" Ice asks, giving her a crooked smile.

Velma smiles back. "This," she says, putting the bottle of vanilla-scented bubble bath in her purse, "an' like Graz said, it's for later."

Ice's grin widens. "Okay," he agrees, palming the change. "I can wait."

As she makes her way back to Graziella, Velma smiles to herself. Her best friend has a point, she decides. The boys make them wait so often that a little payback is in order. And a little anticipation, as Graziella says, makes _everything_ better.

.

They've been talking and watching the boys for about an hour when the door pushes open and a tall, thin girl with glasses walks in.

Velma blinks. She can't remember the girl's name, but Velma is pretty sure she's seen her before—someone like this isn't easy to forget. She is long-limbed, skinny, and severe, with dark auburn hair pulled back tight by a brown headband, over a brown cardigan and a dress that buttons all the way up and reaches all the way down to her brown shoes. To put it lightly, she is both the most awkward-looking and the brownest person Velma's ever seen.

The girl clears her throat and shifts her weight from side to side. "I thought I might find Minnie here. She wasn't at home."

"She's probably with Baby John," Graziella says in a bored voice. "Maybe you oughta go find her."

Velma glances at her best friend, then turns back to the girl. "She might be comin' by later, but we didn't make any plans." She gives her a doubtful look. "What's your name again?"

"Margaret O'Quinn," says the girl primly. She sighs and takes a seat on the farthest stool, much to Velma's surprise. "I suppose I'll wait, then. Mother asked me to invite Minnie for dinner."

Graziella suddenly snorts. "I know you. You're _Midge_, ain't ya?"

Velma's lips twitch as the very dignified girl turns the faintest shade of pink and pinches the bridge of her nose. "My name is Margaret."

"Midge," repeats Graziella, her voice loud in the small dark space of Doc's. In the corner behind the pinball machine, Riff and Ice glance over, before turning back to their conversation. "Yeah, I've heard about ya. You're Minnie's friend, ain't ya? I've seen ya around readin' the encyclopedia."

Velma stares. "You read the encyclopedia?"

Midge frowns. "It's fascinating, actually," she says stiffly. "Just yesterday, I found an article on Euclidean geometry and Tarski's axioms."

"Yeah, yeah," says Graziella, rolling her eyes, "ya sure know how to have a good time. I might even wanna trade places with her tonight, Vel," she adds with a smirk to her best friend, "'cept I got a feelin' Riff's gonna want me to Tarski _his_ axiom, an' I wouldn't wanna miss out on the fun."

Midge glances toward Riff and Ice and looks alarmed. "Fun?"

"Yeah," says the redhead, eyes flicking over Midge. "Fun. The Jets are havin' a rumble later, an' they're always good for that after. But I guess you wouldn't understand."

Midge purses her lips and doesn't speak for a moment. Finally, she draws her shoulders back and stares straight at them. "Please do define a 'rumble.'"

Graziella's jaw drops open. "You're kiddin', right?"

Midge frowns. "I'm only asking because the sociological implications of gang interactions might be important to my future," she says stiffly. "Psychology is a growing field, you know."

Velma clears her throat. "They fight another gang. Today it's a one-on-one fair fight with the Shark captain—"

"An' Velma's boyfriend, Ice," smirks Graziella. "The tall one in the corner, remember? They're real cozy, so you can quit makin' eyes at him. _And_ Riff."

Midge looks vaguely horrified. "I was _not_ making eyes at Ice and Riff!" she snaps, turning red.

"Sure, sure," says Graziella, rolling her eyes. "Look, Little Miss Midge, I'm used to sluts an' whores tryin' to take my Riffy-poo, so you can just forget about it, it ain't gonna happen."

Midge's mouth drops open. "I cannot even begin to fathom where you received that impression, but I can assure you that I do _not_ want your Riffy-poo!"

Graziella's eyebrows shoot up. "An' why the hell _not_? Ain't he good enough for you?"

Velma's lips twitch. "Graz," she says, turning to her ruffled friend. "I think she means it."

The redhead sniffs. "She'd just better keep her mitts offa Riffy-pie, that's all I can say."

"In any case," Midge says, resettling herself on her stool with a faint noise of disapproval, "why would the Jets want to fight this other gang?"

Graziella yawns. "'Cause the Sharks're invadin' their territory."

Midge frowns. "And?"

"It's _Jet_ territory," Velma explains, sharing a skeptical glance with Graziella. "Theirs. An' they don't like Sharks steppin' all over it."

Midge's frown grows deeper. "But assertion of dominance generally only occurs when there are females at stake. There's no reason a simple boundary dispute should cause this display of male aggression, pack mentality, and increased testosterone levels. It's a logical fallacy."

Velma stares at her, troubled, and for once wishes Mouthpiece were here to answer for her. This is the same problem—albeit reworded—she has been considering over the last few days, and though she has gotten closer, she still doesn't know the solution. But Velma is a Jet's girl. She can't do it, can't open her mouth and say she doesn't know and question the framework underlying all of them and what they believe in. She can't.

After the silence stretches on for a few minutes, Graziella sighs. "'Cause they're _Jets_," she says, and Velma is relieved. Graziella, she knows, is right. There is no other answer. "An' the Jets are the best, an' they're gonna teach that to the Sharks. Got any other questions, Miss Smartypants?"

"Honestly, I just think that there must be more productive ways to resolve this," says Midge, steepling her hands together on the counter. "Some sort of aptitude test, perhaps, determining which gang is better qualified to fulfill the administrative duties of this…territory." She pushes the bridge of her glasses up. "I would be more than happy to look into it."

Velma stares at Midge, dumbfounded. Graziella isn't so quiet, though.

"Oh, my God," she says, face scrunched up. "What is it _sayin'_?"

Velma chokes back a laugh and promptly arranges her face into an expression of polite disinterest. "I don't think that'd work, Midge."

Midge purses her lips. "Well," she says with a sniff, "I suppose if the government and the Soviet Union can't solve their differences with all their intellectual resources, there's no reason to hope a juvenile street gang can, either."

"No," says Velma with a sigh, "I don't think so."

Graziella rolls her eyes. "Rah-rah, let's all have a peace summit, yeah, we get it. We got better things to do, don't we, Vel?"

Velma is saved from replying by the bright chime of the bell at the entrance and the appearance of a slim, sweet-faced girl—Minnie. Though Velma is pretty sure Clarice has kept the younger girl in the dark about what the Jets are planning to do tonight, still Minnie, like Velma herself, has indicated where her loyalties lie in the blue of her skirt and the green of her blouse. More than anything else, Velma thinks with a smile, it's probably a vote of confidence in Baby John.

"Oh, hello, Graziella!" Minnie says brightly. "Hello, Velma! Oh!" she says, eyes widening. "Hello, Midge!"

"Hello, Minnie," Midge intones. She lets out a short, dry laugh. "I suppose by now I shouldn't be surprised at your predilection for sanguinity."

"It's a wonderful day," Minnie beams as Graziella goggles. She doesn't seem to take the slightest insult at Midge's remark. "And I'm going to see Johnny—" She stops short and blushes. "In any case, why shouldn't I be happy?"

Midge raises an eyebrow. "I suppose you're not aware of the rum—"

"Midge," Velma cuts in, giving her a meaningful look, "have ya ever maybe thought-a getting' corneal lenses?" Minnie has a brother who was no stranger to tussles in high school, she thinks, but this is more than that and Velma isn't sure Minnie is ready for that kind of knowledge yet.

Midge, hand drifting to her glasses, looks scandalized. "Corneal lenses? Whatever for?"

"Well," says Velma, breathing a sigh of relief at Minnie's serene expression, "you'd look prettier if we could see your eyes, I bet."

"How ya ever expect to attract a decent man with those blinkers I don't know," adds Graziella with a yawn.

Midge draws herself up, clearly affronted. "I refuse to change my appearance for a _man_."

"Yep," sighs Graziella as she examines her nails. "That's what I thought."

Midge takes a deep breath and turns to Velma. "Cosmetic appearances notwithstanding," she says, "corneal lenses are quite expensive—and fragile—and in any case, I am very fond of my glasses. They connote an appreciation of _history_."

"They connote an appreciation of bein' an old maid, that's what they connote," mutters Graziella.

"I like your glasses," says a cheerful Minnie. "They make you look very intelligent."

"Thank you," Midge says with great dignity, ignoring Graziella. And Velma half-smiles. Midge is a funny one, she thinks, but entertaining, in her own way, even if she doesn't seem to care about looking her best. At the very least, they're off the subject of the rumble now. Midge is a lot of things, but she isn't stupid, and Velma hopes she's taken the hint.

"Minnie," Midge goes on, "Mother wanted to know if you'd like to come to dinner."

Minnie smiles. "Oh, yes, Midge, I'd love to." She glances at her watch. "Though I do have an errand to run if I'm going to be busy later. Would you like to go with me?"

Midge shrugs. "I suppose so."

Minnie waves at Velma and Graziella. "Goodbye, girls!"

Graziella raises a careless hand. "Bye, Minnie. Midge," she adds with a smirk.

"Bye," says Velma, watching as the two girls exit the candy store. She turns to Graziella. "What d'ya make-a _her_?"

The redhead makes a face. "She looks like a mushroom. What is she, allergic to color?"

Velma shrugs, feeling a little sorry for the girl. "She's real tall. I bet she'll have a hard time findin' a guy."

Graziella snorts. "Not just for that. Did ya ever see such a wet blanket? An' talkin' about the _Jets_ like they was some sorta Commie country! Geez Louise, what was _she_ on?"

"I don't know," says Velma, remembering Midge's sharp gray eyes and feeling uncomfortable. "She's strange, yeah, but…"

"But nothin'," says Graziella, shrugging. "She don't get the Jets. That's all."

Velma stares at the captain and his lieutenant talk tactics and sighs. "I guess so."

She can't help but wonder. Midge is so clearly an outsider, and it makes sense that she wouldn't understand. But at the same time, Velma knows that sometimes it's easier to see through a situation if you're not involved. What if—just maybe—Midge is right? What if none of this makes any sense and there is no reason for any of this at all?

Velma sighs. After the rumble, she promises herself. After the rumble, she will mull it over again and if there is any truth to the idea then there will be plenty of time to think about it then. As for now, all she can do is wait.

.

Another hour passes and finally it is time to leave and let the boys do what they will until the rumble. Velma glances at Graziella, a hard knot of worry in her stomach. "Gimme a sec, okay?"

The redhead shrugs and heads over to Riff. "Yeah, sure."

Velma turns to Ice and holds out her hand. "Let's go outside."

Ice nods and loops his fingers through hers. "Okay."

It's bright and sunny and only just beginning to get dark and looking up at Ice, whose physical presence is so solid and reassuring, it's hard to believe any of this is real.

Velma reaches forward and grasps Ice's shirt loosely, fingertips just touching his waist. There are so many things she could do, so many things she could say, if she had the courage. If she thought it would make a difference. Velma wants to ask him if he's afraid, but if she does, that will mean that there is something to be afraid of, and she doesn't want to think about the possibility that there might be. She wants to hold onto him, and never let go, but if she does, he will leave anyway. It's for this same reason that Velma doesn't ask him to stay: she knows that there is nothing on earth that could stop him tonight, and she doesn't want to hear him tell her no.

Ice strokes her arm with his fingertips, a silent, wordless apology. Velma shivers, as always, but this time it's not just because she is looking forward to the night. And it's on the tip of her tongue. Don't go. Stay with me. Please.

"See ya later," she says instead, forcing herself to meet his pale eyes. It's what they always say, even when he's not heading off to meet the unknown, and Velma thinks that if she says it now like there's no possibility that it won't happen, it will be true, like every other night. Because it has to be. Cross your fingers and hope. Pray. It all amounts to the same thing, which is luck, pure and simple, and whose side it falls on tonight.

She hopes it's hers.

Ice gazes down at her; she knows he can tell what she is thinking. He always can. And that, Velma thinks with a sigh, is probably why she loves him. Because he sees the best and the worst in her and loves her anyway. And right now, the best is that she knows he can beat Bernardo, easy. The worst is that she doesn't know if he will.

They don't talk about it, though, don't make a long and drawn-out farewell scene because that is just not what they do. Instead, Ice steps forward and presses a searing kiss on her lips that leaves her gasping, aching, almost crying, because how the hell is she supposed to let him go now?

And then he disappears back into Doc's, and Graziella comes out, and they leave. But now, as always, he's never far from her mind. Please, she thinks, remembering that last glint of sun on his hair, please. Be safe.

.

"Oh, _Riff_," Graziella sighs dreamily as they walk back to their block. The sun is beginning its slow slide into the night and the shadows are already longer, the sky darker. "He's the real deal, I swear."

"Yeah," murmurs Velma, still thinking about Ice, "he is."

"I never met a guy who made me feel so great," muses Graziella, a small smile on her face. "Not even Tony. An' Tony, he's the kinda guy who makes ya feel like everything's gonna be okay, y'know?"

Velma barely hears her. "Graz," she says, glancing at the redhead, "d'ya think he's scared?"

"Who, Ice?" Graziella asks, giving her a skeptical look. "Wouldn't he tell ya?"

"I don't think so," shrugs Velma. She hates to admit it, but it's true. "He doesn't like talkin' to me about stuff like that." She sighs. "But then, I don't know that he talks to anybody about anything. Maybe not even Riff."

"He talks to you," observes Graziella, quirking her mouth up. "Maybe ya don't think so, 'cause ya didn't see him before he met ya, but he does."

Velma glances at her. "Not about everything."

Graziella shrugs. "Boys don't like to. Makes 'em all antsy. I can't think why," she adds with a sigh. "I'd go _crazy_ without someone to talk to."

Velma sighs. "I don't like worryin' this much about him."

"So don't," advises a practical Graziella. "Whatever's gonna happen's gonna happen, whether you worry about it or not. So do what I do an' don't think about it."

Velma glances at her. "You really don't?"

Graziella gives a shrug and sighs. "What's the point?"

"Yeah," says Velma. What will happen tonight is out of their hands and there is nothing they can do about it. "I guess you're right."

"I _know_ I'm right," Graziella says, high voice confident and bright. She touches her best friend on the shoulder, and to Velma, it feels as light as a breath of air. "Now you go doll yourself up for Ice an' I swear, he'll be back before ya know it. I swear."

Velma smiles. Whatever her faults, she thinks, Graziella is a good best friend. "Thanks," she says. Leaving the redhead in the street, she takes out her key, unlocks the door, walks up the stairs to her floor. She doesn't make a sound the whole way.

.

"Vilhelmina?"

Velma pauses in the hallway at the sound of her father's voice and releases a sigh. Tonight of all nights, she is not in the mood for a talk about what she is already worried about. All she wants to do is take a nice, long, hot bubble bath and relax—as much as she can, anyway. But her father is there, and as always, she answers him. She turns around. "Dad?"

A sober Dr. Andersen waits a few feet behind her. "George Goddard said that the boys are having a—rumble—today."

Velma's mouth tightens. She'd forgotten her father is friends with Minnie's, and Minnie's father, she knows, doesn't exactly have the best opinion of the Jets.

"If they are, I don't know much about it," she says, and her voice sounds strange to her ears. She is not lying, not exactly, because it's true. Most of what she knows about the Jets comes from the girls. Ice always tells her when she asks, but most of the time it's not something they talk about.

Her father sighs. "You are young, Vilhe, and I know it is hard to understand, but fighting—war—is not a game for children. Things happen, and people get hurt."

Velma watches him. She'd been five the year the war ended, and she still remembers the celebrations in the streets and the way her father smiled. He was, and is, a pediatrician, she remembers, but in wartime, a doctor is a doctor and though he doesn't talk about it she knows he's seen things he can't forget. "No one's going to get hurt, Dad," she says, as much for her own benefit as his. "Really."

Dr. Andersen shakes his head and repeats his words, softer: "Fighting is not a game."

"I know," she says, and swallows. Though he probably won't believe her, she does. "I know.

Her father watches her for a long moment, then nods. "All right, then," he says. "Just stay at home tonight, please."

Velma nods. She can't meet his eyes. "I will."

.

As she goes through the ritual of turning her lamps on, Velma bites her lip. Even with everything Graziella has said to reassure her, she can't stop thinking about it. This is something she's never really had to deal with before. None of the boys she knew, let alone dated, back in her old neighborhood were in gangs, and Velma is not used to having to worry about her boyfriend's physical safety. Sure, there was the rumble with the Emeralds a few months ago before the Sharks came into the picture, but that was different. She hadn't even really had a clear picture of what a rumble really was, and what it could be.

But it's different now. They have been together for a full year, and Velma is in deep. She couldn't stop caring now if she tried. And now she's been here long enough so that she's seen the aftermath of the fights, seen the broken noses and bloody split lips and purple bruises all over the Jets' bodies. They win their fights, yes, but at what cost?

He'll be fine, she tells herself, picking up a scarf and beginning to tie up her hair. Everyone knows it, and you do, too. It's just a fistfight, and Ice is good at those. Nothing to worry about. At worst, he might come back with a bloody nose or maybe even a broken arm, and she'll hide her relief in her kisses. At best, he'll take Bernardo out with the first hit, and not have to worry about anything more than a bruised knuckle.

Velma sighs. Best would be Ice not fighting at all. Worst, well…she doesn't want to think about the worst that could really happen, if things spiral out of control like all the girls think it will and goes to an all-out rumble, with bats and chains and who knows what else. She doesn't trust the Sharks. It's a fair fight, sure, but everyone knows PRs don't play fair. Velma is positive the Jets will be ready for anything and everything the Sharks pull, but somehow, that only makes her feel worse.

She just needs to talk to someone, Velma decides, reaching for her phone. Just to hear, one more time, that everything will be all right. But when she starts to dial Graziella's number, she stops. Hanging up the phone, she stares at it for a minute. Finally, she picks it up again, dials the number, and settles down on her bed.

The phone rings twice before a long and languid voice answers. "Hello?"

Velma blinks. "Hello, Bernice."

There is the slight hiss of an inhaled breath on the other side, and Velma knows she's surprised the other Gambini twin. "Hi, Vel."

Velma's mouth twists a little bit. It irks her that the Bernice would nickname her like that when they are not exactly close. "Clarice around?"

"She might be," answers the voice on the other end. "I don't know, she's been in an' outta the bathroom all day. I bet _you_ know why," she adds, and Velma frowns again at the degree of intimacy implied in Bernice's tone. "Hang on, lemme go see."

Velma hears the click of the phone being set down and a faint shout of "_Clarice_!" and sighs. She wishes she could like Bernice, for Clarice's sake, but she can't seem to get past the brunette's taste for men. Meaning Ice. She knows it's a little petty of her, particularly because there is no way he would ever cheat on her, but it still bothers her. It's not just that Bernice wants him. Velma has a feeling Bernice just wants what she sees. What everyone else sees. Not who he really is.

Another rustle on the other end, and Bernice's voice is back. "She's doin' her eyebrows," she announces, then snickers. "Can't think _why_, it ain't like Big Deal's gonna be lookin' there anyway."

Velma forces a laugh. "So," she says, for lack of anything better, "I heard ya had a date with Mouthpiece last night."

"Yep," says Bernice, and Velma can almost hear the brunette smirking. "I tell ya, Vel, that boy's brain ain't worth much, but he's got another head that's _much_ more responsive."

Velma's mouth drops open at this bit of unexpected information. "Oh."

"I know, right?" Bernice goes on with glee. "Makes up for a lot."

Velma wishes that Clarice would hurry up and come to the phone. "Well, sounds like ya had a nice time."

"When I made sure his mouth was busy, yeah," drawls Bernice, and Velma wonders if this is what it is like, talking to Pauline for longer than a minute. She has never tried it and is definitely not going to now. "An' lemme tell ya, he would _not shut up_ about ya."

Velma frowns, remembering the Jet sitting on her fire escape and wondering how much Bernice knows. "What'd he say?"

"Oh, the usual," Bernice says carelessly, "just how pretty ya are an' how your hair's real shiny an' how he's gonna have his own train an' ride all over the damn country with you an' your ten kids."

Velma sighs. "Oh."

"It was almost cute," Bernice says reminiscently. "Actually, right after that I told him to pretend to be a train an' I'd be his—hey!"

Velma, eyes wide, hears a torrent of Italian before a breathless Clarice comes on the line. "Hello?"

"Hey, Clarice," says Velma, feeling a little bit silly. "It's Velma."

"Oh, hi, Vel!" crackles the other end. "What's up? You excited about tonight?"

Velma shrugs, though she knows Clarice can't see her. "Yeah, I guess."

Clarice giggles. "I can't _wait_ for Frankie to come over. It's been awhile since the last rumble, an' it builds up, y'know?"

Velma smiles a little. "Yeah. I know."

"Anyway," Clarice goes on "you'll never guess—Frankie was takin' me to his brother-n-law's for dinner an' we ran into _Gee-Tar_. Frankie just about blew his top!"

"Yeah?" says Velma, only half-listening. "What happened?"

Clarice, as always, is more than happy to tell her. And Velma, listening to her chatter about Big Deal and Gee-Tar, bites her lip. None of the girls seem worried about the rumble at all. No one seems to think it will be anything but a fight between two gangs that will be over in no time and lead into the real deal later. Only her father is cautious, and he doesn't know the Jets at all.

Velma knows she should listen to them. Graziella, Clarice, Minnie, Bernice, and Pauline have all been here and known the Jets their entire lives. If anyone can be trusted about tonight, it's them. And Velma supposes she does know everything will be all right, deep down. She's just…uneasy, and she doesn't know why.

But still, she has to ask one more time. Just in case.

"Clarice?" she says, interrupting her friend.

Clarice stops in the middle of her story about Gee-Tar's band's disastrous performance at the school Battle of the Bands. "Yeah, Vel?"

Velma is quiet for a moment. "He'll be okay, right?"

"Oh, Vel," says Clarice, voice warm and reassuring. "'Course he will. They always are."

"Always?" she asks. Velma hates to admit it, but she needs that guarantee.

"Always," Clarice confirms.

"Thanks," Velma says quietly.

"No problem," comes the voice over the line. "Now look, Vel, I'm going to go get ready now, but—you have fun tonight, okay? Stop worryin'. Everything'll be just fine."

Velma nods, then remembers Clarice can't see her. "Well, okay. Bye."

As she replaces the receiver on the hook, Velma reaches for her purse. Graziella and Clarice are right, she decides, taking out the bubble bath and heading to the bathroom. Everything will be just fine.

.

When she leaves the bathroom an hour later and comes back to her room to change into her lingerie, she glances at the window. Outside the sun is swinging from the hot yellow of late afternoon to the darker red of evening, and Velma, watching the sun set, knows that that means. When the light disappears beneath the horizon, it will be time. Despite everything she has been told—despite everything she knows—she is still worried. But that comes with loving someone, she supposes as she straightens her corselette. And all she can do is hope that luck comes hand in hand with love, too.

Velma sighs, and settles on her bed to keep watch. Good luck, she thinks, arms locked around her knees and hardly daring to take a breath. Good luck.

* * *

Disclaimer: Midge belongs to **Megfly**, who is kind enough to let me borrow her. :)


	12. to your last dying day

Disclaimer: I own even less than I owned last chapter. Boo.

Note: This is the second longest chapter yet, and I am sorry. :( Anyway, I keep revisiting this scene despite the fact that it breaks my heart every time I watch it. I think it's because the acting is so good. I can only hope I do them the smallest bit of justice.

PSA: If you should feel inclined to leave feedback, I will send virtual hugs and cupcakes and many, many thanks. :)

For: Russ Tamblyn and George Chakiris. And as always, Tucker Smith.

—viennacantabile

* * *

fell the angels

twelve : to your last dying day

.

Finish, good lady; the bright day is done,  
And we are for the dark.

—William Shakespeare, _Antony and Cleopatra_

.

Sunset over Manhattan, and Ice is ready to go.

The girls are gone now, and Riff is quiet as he runs through battle tactics with his lieutenant, over and over again. His body is still, but his eyes keep darting to the door. Ice is pretty sure he knows who his captain is waiting for. Who even Ice is waiting for, with that kind of reluctant hope he thought he'd lost a long time ago. They shouldn't need Tony, not with the eleven of them and even odds for the rumble that isn't supposed to happen—but it sure would be good to have him.

Every time Doc swings by to straighten a chair or sweep the floor, the old man glances over. It's obvious what's on his mind, but Ice ignores him. If he had a nickel for every worry Doc had about the Jets, he'd be a Rockefeller and out of this sorry neighborhood. For all Doc's warnings, nothing has happened to them yet. In all probability, nothing will tonight, either. They're just kids—what could possibly go wrong? It's strange, thinks Ice, that for all his talk about how young they are, the old man doesn't see that.

As the evening wears on, the Jets filter in, nerves stretched taut to the breaking point. Action shows up first, spitting and cracking and aching to sink his teeth into someone, anyone, but especially a Shark.

"Where the hell is everyone?" he growls, smacking his fist into his hand. "This ain't play-time for the kiddies, Riff!"

The Jet captain eyes him. "Cool it," he cautions, an edge to his voice. "It ain't even quarter-past eight yet."

Action scowls, but crashes into a chair. "They'd better be here, is all I'm gonna say."

"Yeah," Riff says shortly. "Or _I'll_ deal with 'em; dig?"

Ice glances at Action. Riff is clearly in no mood to deal with the shorter Jet's mouth today, and he hopes Action will figure that out. He's of better use to them keeping his mouth shut and toeing the line and saving it until he has a better target tonight.

He's in luck. "Dig," the dark-haired boy mutters, and contents himself with cracking his knuckles with slow, painful intensity. The sound works its way into Ice's brain, ticks the minutes and seconds until it is time. Just an hour. An hour to go, he thinks, until it's over.

.

The twins are next.

"We ready to kick them Sharks home to Puerto Rico?" asks Snowboy, voice a little too loud, as the door to Doc's bangs open to reveal the Boyers. "'Cause I know I am, buddy-boys!" Joyboy says nothing, just flashes a grin and stalks into the store.

Riff lets out a short bark of laughter. "Attaboy, Jets! That's the talk I like to hear."

Ice glances over at them. He can see the faint sheen of sweat on Snowboy's grimy face and the too-bright gleam to Joyboy's blue eyes, and the way both of them can't stand still, even for a minute. They are not as confident as they seem.

"'Bout time you two showed," says Action sourly. "Thought I was gonna be an old man in my grave 'fore anything happened." He glances at Riff, then, whose face has returned to its hard sternness, and settles back into an uneasy silence, broken only by that slow _crack_ of his hands.

"Nah," says Snowboy, prancing over, "we gotta date with somethin' real special tonight—world domination, takin' over the town, all that jazz—an' we wouldn't miss it for nothin'. Would we, Bobby?"

"Nope," Joyboy says, dropping into a chair. His voice is low, tight, almost an animal growl. "Not even for nothin'."

.

"We was havin' dinner at Tiger's," Mouthpiece informs Riff cheerily as they thump into Doc's. "We had asparrygoggles. An' broccaroni an' cheese."

"Yeah, yeah," Riff waves him off, not even twitching at Mouthpiece's mangled vegetables. "Siddown an' think about how you're gonna take a Shark or three down, will ya?"

"Sure," agrees Tiger, towing Mouthpiece over to the counter, where they perch on stools and dig through the nearest box of sweets. Mouthpiece picks blue and Tiger picks orange and both of them blissfully pop the candy in their mouths. Neither of them, Ice notices, seems too concerned about the rumble.

Riff sighs. "Assumin' he can think. Jesus, if that kid didn't have a punch as hard as his skull—"

Ice shrugs. "But he does."

Riff sighs again. "Small favors, I guess."

.

A few minutes later, Big Deal strolls in, and Ice, doing a double take, waves him over. "Uh, buddy?" he says, clearing his throat, "I don't think the Sharks're gonna be too scared-a ya if they see what color lipstick you're wearin'."

Big Deal blinks before his hands fly to his lips and he grins sheepishly. "I took Clarice out for dinner at my brother-in-law's burger place," he explains, rubbing his pink mouth on his sleeve. "We got, er—distracted—on the way back."

Ice raises an eyebrow and gestures at Gee-Tar, who has just entered the store. "Hope he wasn't tailin' ya."

Big Deal turns and directs a vehement scowl at the other Jet. "Better not've been. Clarice kisses up to him way more'n she oughta, an' I'm sick-a his ugly mug."

Ice shrugs, wondering if Gee-Tar had done as instructed last night and left Clarice alone. "Don't she know ya don't like it?"

Big Deal rolls his eyes. "She oughta by now, but you got a chick; how much does she listen to you? Anyway, I guess it don't matter. _I'm_ the one who's seein' her tonight. I can't wait," he adds with a jaunty grin. "Bernice ain't outta the room all that much, y'know? But she ain't gonna have any trouble findin' a date. Not tonight."

"No," Ice says, glancing at the tense, wound-up Jets around him, caught up in petty tiffs and minor explosions. They are each passing the interval between light and darkness in their own ways, but it all adds up to the same thing: the drive, the push 'til dusk. Time marching on. "I guess not."

.

They are waiting on the rank-and-file when Ice hears Snowboy still talking big about the rumble.

"I'm gonna carve them Sharks up good with just my left pinky," he says, propping his feet on a table and grandstanding for a rapt audience of Tiger, Mouthpiece, and Joyboy. Snowboy tips back in his chair, a satisfied smirk on his face. "An' I'm gonna tie an anchor to the pieces an' throw 'em in the river, so no one ain't ever gonna find 'em. That'll show 'em. An' then—"

"We'll tear up the town," cuts in Joyboy, his feral grin splitting his face. "_Fuck_, I can't wait."

"That bein' the operative word," Snowboy finishes with a smirk.

Big Deal, swiveling around, raises an eyebrow. "Carole gonna _let_ ya tear up the town, buddy-boy?"

Joyboy scowls. "She'd better. I ain't puttin' up with her marriage bullshit tonight."

Action's fist meets his palm with a loud _thud_. "Well, I know one Jet who'll be rockin' it tonight. _All_ night."

"Who ya got waitin' on ya?" asks an eager Mouthpiece.

Action gives the tall Jet a hard grin. "Pauline. Who else?"

"Gee, I don't know," Mouthpiece shrugs affably. "There's Susan an' them other girls."

Action snorts. "What, ya think one-a them _wannabes_ could keep up with me after a rumble? Pauline's gonna get all she can handle tonight, buddy-boy."

"I'll bet," mutters Big Deal to Ice, before Gee-Tar clears his throat.

"You goin' over to Clarice's later?" he asks, fidgeting.

Big Deal glares at him. "Yeah. What's it to you?"

"Nothin', just thought I'd ask," Gee-Tar shrugs, clearly uncomfortable. "I can ask, can't I?"

Big Deal scowls. "No."

Riff, finally seeming to snap out of the intense concentration he's been sunk in for the last hour, turns to his lieutenant. "I'm plannin' on havin' a ball tonight myself," he mutters with a rakish grin. "You?"

Ice nods, mind only half-present. His fingertips are tracing light, swift circles on the wood of the table, over the fine ridges worn down by age. "Vee's waitin' up for me."

Riff claps his lieutenant on the shoulder. "Yeah, well," he says, "you enjoy yourself too, huh? You're gonna deserve it."

"Yeah," says Ice. He inhales, takes deep, even breaths, and thinks of everything and nothing except tonight. "Okay. I will."

.

"At a movie," a breathless Baby John explains as he and A-Rab finally tumble into the store.

"Yeah, we had a little problem with the popcorn machine, six bottles-a Coke, an' Officer G," says A-Rab, rolling his eyes.

Ice frowns, puzzled, but Riff, cigarette in hand, doesn't even pause. "Okay, everyone here now?"

Ice counts. Eleven. "Yep."

Riff glances around. "Right. Listen up, Jets."

Chairs scrape across the floor as the gang moves in close, avid eyes watching their leader. Ice, who has been through more than a few rumbles with the Jets, recognizes Riff's tone. Here is the part where the captain revs his troops up—as if they needed it—and tells them to give the other gang hell. It's an old hat for a smooth-talker like Riff. But this is the first time he has ever had to do it as leader, and Ice wonders what he will say.

"I an' alla ya know them Puerto Ricans've been dancin' into our territory an' showin' around like it's theirs," Riff says, giving each and every one of them a hard look. "An' I don't know about you, but this is _our_ turf, an' I ain't about to sit back an' let some jumped-up Spics take over the place like it's goddamn San Juan."

There is a chorus of muttered support, punctuated by the crack of a knuckle and the slap of a fist into a palm. The already-high tension in the air is rising, propelled by Riff's low, intense voice.

"So this is it. Tonight, buddy-boys," says Riff, dark gaze still flickering from Jet to Jet, "we're gonna stop them PRs once and for all. They started it—an' we're gonna finish it. _Our_ way."

Once again, the Jets sound their agreement, louder this time, and Ice breathes in and out. It's been awhile since their last rumble—months—and all of them are amped up, ready to go and finally end this thing with the Sharks. Fighting is what the Jets do best, and he has no doubt as to who will be coming out on top tonight. Whether or not it turns into an all-out rumble. And then—

Ice shakes his head and narrows his eyes. He has to concentrate and not let himself get distracted by later, he reminds himself, or later will be a lot longer in coming than he'd like.

Riff grins, and adopts a lighter tone. "Now, on paper it's a fair fight between the Spic an' our buddy-boy, here," he says, clapping a hand on his lieutenant's shoulder. "An' I ain't worried one little bit. We all know the Puerto Rican punk'll go down in about three seconds."

"Gee, really?" asks Mouthpiece, jaw dropping. "That quick?"

Riff grins. "One—two—three," he says, snapping his fingers on the last word. "Just like that. Ice is gonna flatten him good. Right, buddy-boy?"

Ice inhales all the way down to the bottom of his lungs and nods—once, twice, each time hard and fast. One, two, three. Just like that. "Right."

"An' if he tries to put one over on ya," says Riff, "you know we got your back, buddy-boy."

Ice half-smiles then. Do they ever. "Right," he repeats. His vision is so clear right now, as it always is before a rumble. He can see the dust floating through the air, the grain of the wooden beam by the pinball machine. Every color is sharp and bright. Tonight, he thinks, Bernardo is going down. The streets will be theirs, uncontested, and everyone will know who the real gang is in West Side. And if the PRs don't like it? Tough.

Baby John's high voice pierces his thoughts. "But what if the Sharks start a rumble?"

Riff grins, long and slow. "Oh, if they do—an' they will—we'll rumble 'em right. Count on it, kid."

Baby John gives a shaky smile. Ice eyes him and wonders if the kid will prove himself better than he did in the last rumble, with the Emeralds. Tony had to save his neck then, and he is not around to do it now. And if things get bad…

He'll be all right, Ice reassures himself. Baby John has gotten into so many scrapes and lived to tell the tale that by now Ice is beginning to feel that no matter what, he's always going to get out of them. Somehow. He'll be all right.

"Now," says Riff, glancing around, "we're gonna go load up. An' we're gonna go to the rumble, an' one way or another, the Jets are gonna pummel them Sharks into the ground til they holler uncle. An' then we're gonna go have some fun with the chicks. No ifs, ands, or buts about it. Everyone dig?"

Every Jet nods. Their faces are hard, dark, hungry for battle, limbs tense and ready to spring. And in the years to come, Ice will remember this moment as the last before everything came crashing down.

Riff takes one last drag of his cigarette before flicking it to the ground. "Then let's move out, Jets."

.

They make their way out of the candy store and sneak around to the back, where the Jets scale the fence and cross the trash-littered alley behind Doc's to his cellar, their longtime armory. They've kept their weapons there from the very beginning, and even if Tony really has gone the straight and narrow, they know he still figures what Doc doesn't know is under the loose floorboards won't hurt him. Anyway, it's the Jets' stuff, and if Tony really isn't a Jet anymore, then he has no say in it.

Ice watches as Tiger jumps down into the stairwell and begins handing the goods out. Every gang worth its salt has a stockpile of weaponry it keeps for times like this, and the Jets, over the years, have built up one of the best. They've got it all: beat-up hammers, wrenches, belts, chains, ice picks, and last of all, their prize—big, serrated knives nabbed off a couple of jumped-up wannabes way back when Tony was leader and they never lacked for action. Each Jet has his preferred weapon, an old friend that knows the touch of his hand and has seen rumbles before, and when he takes it, he is ready for anything.

Ice, though, hangs back. He has his own blade that he keeps safe in his back pocket, and since he's going to start out fighting barehanded and the Spic is lighter than him anyway, he doesn't want to be weighed down with anything heavier than that. With any luck, he's not going to use it, but by now, Ice has learned, it's better to be safe than sorry with a someone else's blade in your back.

Instead he edges near Riff. "Tony comin'?" he asks in a low voice as they near the highway. He hasn't seen Tony since that morning, and if anyone knows, it's Riff.

Riff nods, once, twice. "Yeah. Yeah," he repeats, louder the second time. "He'll be there." But his voice is even less sure than it was the day before, and Ice realizes that Riff really doesn't know. Which means Tony is so far gone that even the person who knows him best has no clue what he's doing. It's an unsettling thought.

Still, Ice knows that Riff is counting on his best buddy showing, just like at the dance last night. So he nods. "It's Tony," he says, remembering the good old days. "He'll be there."

Riff just inclines his head, but by now Ice knows him well enough to understand the slight gesture and thumps his fist into his palm, mostly to cover his slight embarrassment. Ice would do a lot for Riff. This tacit support, this shared memory of Riff's best friend—this is nothing.

Riff glances around, and his rounded face takes on that hard intensity again. "Everybody ready?" Receiving confirmation in the steady gazes of his gang members, he nods. "Let's go."

.

As the blood-red sky turns to deep violet to the dark color of New York City night, they move, crossing the concrete streets of the jungle that is Manhattan to their destination under the bridge that promises a way out but never delivers. The Jets are focused, intense, a single unit traveling through the night in silence only broken by the occasional clank of a chain or thud of a fist against palm. They keep to the back alleys and the shadows, mindful of Schrank's threats. They have come too far to be stopped by an outsider now.

A series of chain-link fences and a couple of 'No Trespassing' signs later, they are staring up at the concrete wall that divides them from their designated battleground.

"Weapons," Riff says, and in the silence that follows every Jet pockets his personal insurance. If and when the fair fight escalates into a rumble, it won't be the Jets who begin it.

They scale the wall one after another, Riff first. Ice follows him, and as they spread out along the narrow ledge he glances down. All eleven of the Sharks are already there, lined up grim-faced in the concrete pit under the highway, waiting for them. Even numbers, unless a certain someone else comes along. Not that it's supposed to matter.

Bernardo gives them an unimpressed stare, and Riff takes the ten-foot drop with ease. The Jets follow his lead, and Ice, sizing the situation up, inhales, slow and deep. It isn't as if he and Bernardo have never matched fists before, but tonight—with control of the streets and their lives on the line, both gangs looking on, emotions riding high—there can be no losing. Ice isn't stupid; he knows the Shark is lighter and probably quicker on his feet than him, but he knows his own advantages, too: a couple knockout punches, and the fight is his. He and Riff have gone over this backwards, forwards, sideways, every which way from Sunday, and it all comes down to the same thing: if Ice can get to Bernardo in the first few moments and level him, there isn't much the PR will be able to do after. And at this point, Ice is done talking about how to beat him; all he wants now is to actually do it, win this one for the Jets and head back to Velma's as fast as his feet will take him, and—

He shakes his head. That is exactly what he can't do: let his mind wander, no matter how tempting the distraction is, because the other thing Riff hammered into his head is that if Ice doesn't concentrate on Bernardo's quick, darting movements, it will be over, then, too. But not in the way he wants.

The Puerto Rican removes his jacket, dark eyes never leaving them. "Ready." His voice is a low, smooth growl.

His friend, the boy who takes his jacket—Ice only has a vague idea who he is but it's easy to see he's not a factor at all—sounds almost nervous. "Ready."

Ice takes this as his cue to strip his jacket off, too, and hand it to Riff, his second. Too many layers equals excess bulk equals distraction. "Ready."

Riff passes the jacket behind him. "Ready." There is the briefest pause, and then he moves forward into the center of the pavement. "Now," he directs, "move in an' shake hands."

Ice does what his captain says, strides forward and extends his palm, but Bernardo takes one deliberate step back.

"For what?"

And Ice stops, eyeing the Puerto Rican with contempt. _His_ hand isn't good enough to shake?

"Huh," says Riff with an incredulous snort, "well, that's the way it's _done_, buddy-boy."

"Ah. More gracious living," mocks Bernardo, his dark features twisted up in a sneer. "Look, every one of you hates every one of us, and we hate you right back. Let's get at it."

Riff raises a derisive hand. "_Sure_," he agrees. It's obvious what he's thinking, and Ice agrees: what the hell kind of gang members are the Sharks, anyway, if they don't even play by the rules? It just, thinks Ice, narrowing his eyes as Riff pulls him back for a last minute huddle with the Jets, makes him that much more determined to show the PRs who's boss.

The Jets are buzzing encouragement; their energy is sparking, crackling, bursting into his skin. Ice can feel their need to go, to pound the Sharks into the ground, and as the chosen representative for that will, he is determined not to let them down.

"You know what to do, buddy-boy," says Riff, clapping a heavy hand on his side as the Jet press in close all around them.

Ice nods, gearing himself up for that moment when everything becomes clear and moves so slowly that he knows exactly what to do because this is what he does. This is what he's here for. This is it. This is for the Jets.

Riff nods back, eyes alight. "Go."

And Ice turns back to the center of the space underneath the highway and waits, tense and half-crouched in a defensive stance as the Jets quiet and Bernardo crosses himself. Say your prayers, Shark, he thinks, readying himself for the fight that is about to begin. You'll need them.

At last Bernardo is up and moving, darting in front of him, movements quick and sure. His defenses are up, but so are Ice's, and with the Jets shouting their support at his back their lieutenant is invincible tonight. He narrows his eyes, waiting, watching for an opening. Finally Bernardo lunges, feints, backs up almost into the crowd of Jets. Ice hurls a punch at him and now they are really getting started and hell, this is what he lives for, the thrill of the fight and the blood racing through his veins and the adrenaline, oh, God, the adrenaline rush is like almost nothing he's ever felt before. Come on, you Spic, he thinks savagely, come and get it.

And he does. Bernardo's fist comes rushing in again and again, but Ice blocks him every time. This is easy, this is his, this is what he was born for—

He almost thinks he hears something. The patter of footsteps, maybe, but it isn't until a voice comes ringing through the concrete space that Ice recognizes it as the one he's been waiting for.

"_Hold it!_"

Tony is halfway over the chain-link fence when Ice, Bernardo, and every other gang member there pauses. Ice feels a hand on his back; it's Riff, dashing forward.

"Tony!" he greets, voice clipped and excited. "Get with the gang! It's all okay," he reassures Ice as he rejoins the Jets.

And Ice, impatient, brings up his fists again to challenge Bernardo. No one's even landed anything, but as Bernardo crouches Ice is confident the fight will be his. One punch. That is all he—

"No!"

Out of nowhere, Tony comes barreling over and pushes him back. Ice glances at his former leader, confused. He isn't the only one.

"Tony, what're ya doin'?" asks Riff, and with that, Ice takes another step back. If even Riff doesn't know…what _is_ Tony doing?

"Maybe he has found the guts to fight his _own_ battles," suggests Bernardo, the hateful scowl back on his face. Tony turns, and Ice waits for him to slug the Spic just like old times, because maybe for once the Shark is right: Tony should be the one to take him down. It's his girl, his fight, and even though Ice is aching to wipe the sneer off Bernardo's ugly mug, Tony's got the right to do it first.

But Tony, panting and breathing hard, just takes a few steps forward, closer to the line of Shark. "It don't take guts," he says, "if ya _got_ a battle. We ain't got one. Not none-a us! Okay, 'Nardo?"

"Tony!" bursts Riff to Ice's right, voice unguarded and shocked. And cool, calm, unruffled Ice is feeling almost panicked at this point, because Tony, good old, loyal, reliable _Tony_, is actually putting his hand forward like he expects the PR to _shake it_; oh, God, Ice of all people knows that dames make you do funny things, but Tony can't really have turned that dumb, right?

The Shark sends him crashing to the concrete with a snarl. "_Ber_nardo!"

"Hold it!" Riff shouts, dashing between Jets and Sharks, trying to regain control of the situation. Ice watches, still stunned, as Riff talks fast and low, holding up his hands as if to physically hold his best friend and his rival apart. "Now let's just cool it—the deal is a fair fight between you and _Ice_. Come on," he says, backing up and grabbing Tony's arm, "get with the gang."

But Bernardo, it seems, is still itching for a shot at Tony. "Mother hen protecting the little one?" he jeers, mocking eyes fixed on Riff and Tony. "I'll give you a battle, _gallito_!"

Ice doesn't know what the hell that means but if Riff says it's his fight, he's damn well going to win it. His fists are rising again as he moves toward Bernardo. "You've _got_ one!"

But Tony is there, again, racing up to hold him back even as the Shark grins. "I'll take pretty boy on as a warm-up—"

Shoved back with the Jets, Ice can only stare as Tony stands still and Bernardo runs his mouth.

"Afraid, pretty boy?" the Shark taunts, white teeth flashing in the gloom. "Afraid, gutless? Afraid, _chicken?_" And he reaches forward and pushes Tony's shoulder.

Riff whips forward. "_Cut it_—"

But Tony thrusts him away. "No!"

Riff pauses, moves back. And Tony opens his mouth again. "I don't wanna, Bernardo," he says, and Ice, hearing his shaking, uncertain voice, can't believe it is really Tony up there, moving forward like he's their friend, like he's one of _them_—

"Oh, I'm sure!" Bernardo laughs, lunging forward with his fist again and again as Tony dodges. And if Ice is hearing him right, Tony is trying to _stop_ the fight even as Bernardo takes every opportunity to jab at him—

"Now listen to me—"

"Are you chicken?"

"—there's nothin' to fight about—"

"The hell there ain't!" Riff barks. Bernardo slices forward, but still Tony persists—

"You got it _wrong_—"

What the hell is going on? Ice wonders blankly as he watches, shaking his head as things move faster and faster because he can't believe what his eyes are telling him. Almost without knowing it, he reaches out, seizes his friend's shoulder, just as all the other Jets surge forward, yelling encouragement. His mind is tumbling with thoughts that all mean the same thing: Tony, what the hell are you _doing_, come _on_, fight like a _man_, not like you ain't got the guts, show the damn Spic how to rumble—

And Tony turns to him and the Jets and his face is desperate, pleading—

"—why can't you _understand—_"

And Bernardo rears up and kicks Tony in the back, sends him stumbling forward. "_Understand_, chicken!"

And now Tony is back up on his feet, fists up and eyes hard and now, _now_ Tony is back with them, thinks Ice in relief, in love or not, now he'll crush Bernardo just like he crushed every other gang that came their way back in the old days. The Jets are shouting out their support, all of them eager to see Tony finally tear into the guy, and even the Sharks are urging him on, hungry for blood—

But Tony's blue eyes flicker, and Ice's mouth drops open as Tony's fists uncurl and he gazes at his hands—Tony is practically _trembling_ and Ice doesn't understand this at all. _What the fuck is going on?_

At this, the Shark leader spreads his hands in disbelief. "Hey!" he snorts derisively, darting past and kicking Tony again. "He _is_ chicken!"

Tony turns around, faces the Sharks who are chiming in with their scorn. "Hey, pretty boy!" calls one, and Ice grits his teeth as he sees another perched on the back of Bernardo's second, clucking and flapping his arms. He doesn't need to guess what the implication is. And Bernardo is actually slapping Tony's face and yet he is _still trying to talk to them_—

"—you yellow-bellied chicken—!"

No, no, no, _why_ is Tony just standing there and taking this—what the _hell_? Ice grabs Tony's shoulders to shake some sense into him but Tony just whips around, his eyes overbright and blazing desperately and God, he's never looked at Ice that way, he's never looked at _any_ of the Jets that way—

"—don't _push_ me—!"

"—come on, you yellow-bellied Polack—"

—Riff rears back—bursts—_slams_ his fist into Bernardo—

—and suddenly, everything has changed.

Bernardo lands flat on his back on the pavement, and for a moment, no one can move as he springs up, brings his hand to his face, and turns back to Riff. All the laughter is gone from his eyes. He is deadly serious now.

Riff tears off his jacket, flings it at Joyboy, reaches for his back pocket as Bernardo goes for his. And in another moment, what little light there is from the yellow streetlamps glints off the blades of two knives.

The two gangs back up against the walls, giving their leaders space enough to run, duck, dodge, do anything they need to win. All except Tony, who races forward. "Riff, what're ya doin'—"

The Jet captain flings him off and whips back to face Bernardo's blade again. "Get outta here, Tony!"

"Riff, don't!" shouts Tony, flailing for his friend again, and Ice sprints forward because Riff is in the fight now and if Tony's not careful, he's going to mess it up—

"Hold him!" Riff roars, and Ice and Tiger drag the struggling Tony as far as they can get him to make damn sure he can't interfere.

Tony, bucking and jerking to get free, won't give up. "Ice—lemme _go_!"

No way, thinks Ice grimly, hanging on to his friend's arm. I don't know what's wrong with you right now, but you're staying the hell out of this.

The two leaders are crouched and circling each other, mouths open and eyes wide and alert. Riff feints; Bernardo calls his bluff. They go back and forth, darting their knives at each other until Bernardo pushes Riff back toward the wall. But Riff is an old hand at this—he kicks toward the Shark's knife hand and drives him back, regaining his ground before their fight resumes. Things are moving quickly now, and Ice struggles to hold Tony back as Riff overreaches and sends his knife flying in a long gleaming arc toward the fence. Riff doesn't lose his cool; he reaches back and connects his foot with Bernardo's back and topples him to the concrete. But Bernardo, jumping up again, still has his knife—

Riff knows it just as well as they do, and when the Shark captain rushes at him, he drops to the pavement and sends Bernardo flying back to the fence, too. And he's done it, thinks Ice, straining to see, the Shark has lost his knife—

But as Riff dashes forward, Bernardo manages to yank the blade back out of the way before the Jet can get to it. He's still down and now he's taking a page from Riff's book and hooking his leg around Riff's to trip him. Riff stumbles, falls, is up again in an instant, his back crashing against the chain-link fence as Bernardo approaches, but _Riff doesn't have a knife_—

Every Jet besides Ice and Tiger moves forward, aching, bursting to even the odds and the Sharks are right there with them—

"_Keep outta this!_"

Riff's shouted command is more deadly serious than any of the Jets have ever heard him, and as they freeze, so do the Sharks. And without any warning at all, Tony begins struggling to get free again, his voice ringing out in the utter silence.

"Somebody stop him!" he cries, trying to shake Ice and Tiger loose. Ice holds on tenaciously; there is no way in hell this is stopping now. "Ice—Tiger—!"

No one is listening to him. It's the sound of cars echoing down through the maze underneath the highway that seems to shake the gang members awake. Both Jets and Sharks move cautiously back along the walls, faces guarded and suspicious, to watch as Bernardo, breathing hard, flips his knife in the air, a taunting challenge. A beat. And then the Shark tosses it from his right hand to his left, holds it high in the air. Look at this, he seems to be saying, raising the knife in his right hand again. Who's got the power now?

Ice watches as Riff wipes his palms on his pants and readies himself for Bernardo's approach. He doesn't have long to wait before the Puerto Rican lunges, driving forward with his blade to stab at Riff's stomach. The Jet leader, though, is waiting and uses Bernardo's arm to propel him forward instead. He dives to the concrete and rolls away; Bernardo follows and Riff reverses course.

And Action, at the ready, dashes forward, holding out his knife. "Riff—Riff!"

Riff spins—takes the knife—whirls back around with a triumphant growl, and Bernardo stops his headlong rush as he sees that his opponent is armed again. He aims, thrusts, looking for an opening, but the Jet captain is too quick and too confident; Riff dodges—slices—and the next time Ice gets a good look he sees that Riff has slashed the back of Bernardo's shirt.

"_Stop him!_" cries Tony, but no one is listening—

The Shark is off-balance now, arms flailing as he staggers—stumbles—rights himself—but it's too late, Riff is there to send him back down again and now both of them are on the concrete and Riff is raising his knife—

Ice doesn't know how it happens, but just as he's craning his neck to see his captain thrust the knife into Bernardo, he feels Tony rip loose.

"Riff, _don't_!"

Tony drags Riff back, but Riff isn't about to let his best friend stop him from finishing this fight, and as soon as he gets free, he runs back to Bernardo, who's up and waiting for him, and—

Riff stops. Ice, furrowing his brow, frowns. Riff's back is to him, and he can't see why neither him nor Bernardo is moving an inch.

And then Riff staggers, just a little bit, and Ice starts to grasp that something is horribly, terribly wrong. Riff turns back to Tony, holding his knife out, and for the first time Ice can see that Bernardo's blade is stained red.

And—oh God, there's—Riff's—

There's not a lot of blood, but Ice knows what it means, anyway.

And then Riff collapses to the ground, and the monumental awfulness of the horrible thing that has just happened hits Ice like a blow to the head. Riff—a _Jet_ from those first heady days when they were just picking up members for their ragtag little gang, swearing one day they were going to _make_ something of themselves, one of the best friends he's ever had, the closest thing to a brother in his life, _Riff_—

Tony—poor, stupid Tony—takes his best friend's dying gift, leaps forward, and _slams_ it into Bernardo—

And everything goes to hell.

Ice doesn't know which Shark it is he pulls over to the fence and he definitely doesn't care; all he knows is that some kid in a red jacket and a leather wristband is going to pay for the fact that Ice couldn't get the job done, that he couldn't put Bernardo away before Bernardo put Riff away. No. No. No, he thinks—though it's less thinking than it is feeling, because thinking about Riff falling lifeless to the pavement is impossible—with every punch into the Shark, God, no. Not Riff.

Ice loses himself in mechanically pounding the Shark into a pulp, the way he always has when faced with something that cannot, will not be understood. This is how he cherry-picks every punch for maximum impact. This is how he tries to make the Shark hurt like he hurts, even though there is no way there can be any comparison. The most this kid is going to lose tonight is a few weeks in a hospital, he thinks grimly. That's nothing—less than nothing—compared to a best—

In the fog of his mind, a siren registers.

He's not the only one who's noticed. Action, on the other side of the concrete space, gives his Shark one last blow, and bolts. Others follow, and Ice, having no desire to spend the night in the slammer, shoves his Shark to the ground and scrambles up the nearest ladder and into the night. He doesn't think—can't think—about who, and what, he is leaving behind. Oh, God, Ice thinks, his heartbeat an irregular pounding staccato as he concentrates on just putting one foot in front of the other and getting the hell out of there, oh, God.

.

All he knows is that he has to find her.

Ice runs up over the rooftops, down the fire escapes, through the alleys, racing time and death to get to the one place that holds any sanity at all, because if he doesn't, he knows he will fall, just like Riff did. And he can't. For himself, for her, and for the Jets, Ice has to keep it—and therefore all of them—together. It's his job. And once he sees all the Jets again, he will do it. He will find a way out of this mess. He will lead. Because if he doesn't—they are done for.

But just for this moment, he's not frozen cold Ice, leader by default of the gang that has just proved its willingness in all-too-real blood to die in defense of these streets. He's just John Kelly, running desperate and terrified through the city to find the one thing that can save him right now.

It doesn't take him long before he reaches Velma's apartment and climbs as silently as he can up the steps of the fire escape and in through her open window. The last thing he needs right now is for her parents to wake up, he thinks in the quiet, detached part of his brain, although how such a thing can still _matter_ is harder to understand for the other, younger part of him that is just scared out of his mind.

He drops into her cool dim room, and it's like he's entered another world where death and murder don't exist and can't touch him here. (Except, he wonders vaguely, he might be bringing it in now, and if so, what does that mean for her, for him, for them?) Velma's fallen asleep; probably while getting ready, he figures, because she's not quite dressed. He hopes her dreams are sweet as he moves to sit on the bed, because that's about all that's sweet about the world these days. And he hates to wake her up into this horrible, awful nightmare, but he has to.

"Vee," he whispers urgently. "Vee, wake up."

Her eyes flicker open; she's murmuring his name and asking about the fight, but all he can think is _oh, God, oh, God, Riff_, and he can't answer, can't do anything but reach for her and lose himself in the only thing in his world that hasn't been shattered into pieces tonight. He needs to forget, he needs release, he needs—

"Vee," he breathes so quietly he hopes she won't hear him. In this silent darkness his life has been reduced to that one single word. "Oh, God. Vee."


	13. into that darkness peering

Disclaimer: Yeah, I wish.

Note: And now Riff and Bernardo are dead. As much as I hated to do it, I had to, sigh. And now things are moving and the fic is getting very not happy and here we go. Oh dear. -_-; Also, the cupcakes for feedback offer is still open. :)

For: **Megfly**, whose birthday it was this week, and **HedgehogQuill**, without whose fic _Now It Begins_ I never would have been able to write fta.

Proper credit: The aforementioned author and fic. Chapter ten was used as a reference here. :)

—viennacantabile

* * *

fell the angels

thirteen : into that darkness peering

.

In some divine transcendent hush  
Where light & darkness melt and cease,  
Staying the awful cosmic rush,  
To give two hearts an hour of peace.

—Edith Wharton, her diary

.

"Look," whispered Chuck, and George lifted his eyes to heaven. (There is always a last time for everything.)  
Overhead, without any fuss, the stars were going out.

—Arthur C. Clarke, "The Nine Billion Names of God"

.

"Vee," she hears. It's faint and dim, sunlight through water. "Vee, wake up."

Velma yawns, opens her eyes, wondering when she'd fallen asleep. "Ice?"

He's right there on the bed next to her, pale blue eyes intense even in the darkness. She sits up, suddenly wide-awake with heady, happy relief. "The rumble's over?" Stupid question, she thinks, a smile coming to her lips. Of course it's over, otherwise he wouldn't be here.

Ice doesn't answer, just pulls her to him and kisses her. Velma, like every other Jet's girl tonight, has been waiting for just this kind of passion, but still she is surprised by the savage intensity of his touch. This is more than it ever was before. This is hard, bruising, almost painful in its crushing need.

She doesn't understand, but she doesn't need to. He's here, she thinks, holding the reality of him in her arms, and that's all that matters. "Ice," she murmurs, letting the fear and worry of the past two days dissipate into the close night air. "Ice."

He doesn't say anything, just breathes fast and deep, gasping, gulping for air in between kisses like he can't get enough of it. Don't, she thinks tenderly. It's over. You're safe. And Velma twines her arms around him and pulls him close as she can, kissing his face, eyes, lips, every part of him that is here, gloriously alive and safe and _here_, until there is nothing separating them, not even the beat of their own hearts.

It isn't til he's lying still, face buried in the hollow between her shoulder and throat that he says it: "Riff's dead."

She inhales, isn't sure she's heard his low airless whisper right. "What?"

It's as if that word has released him. Ice breaks away, reaches for his shirt, doesn't look at her. "It got outta hand when Tony showed up. An' Bernardo knifed Riff."

The bottom drops out of Velma's stomach; she slumps back, puts her hand to her mouth. Of all the worries she'd had for this night, this had not been one of them. No, she thinks, not Riff. "Oh, God."

Ice says nothing, only finishes hooking his belt and stands to face her, silhouetted in shadowy relief by the faint moonlight outside.

Her voice catches in her throat. "You leavin'?"

He nods, face still. There is a faint spattered tracery of dark red pinpricks on his sleeve; blood, Velma supposes, her stomach lurching. Whose? She knows it's not his. Tonight he has laid himself bare to her, body and soul, and physically, at least, he's unhurt. "Already been gone too long. I and the boys gotta plan, gotta form up and figure out what to do." He shakes his head. "No tellin' what Action'll get up to if I don't show."

She doesn't like it—actually, she _hates_ it—but tonight of all nights, Velma doesn't question the need for him to go. Those are his friends out there, and he's already lost one this night. Instead she struggles up, yanking first her lingerie, then her skirt on. "I'm comin' with you."

"Vee," Ice says, voice flat. "Tony got Bernardo. The PRs'll be out lookin' for blood. Not tonight."

Velma pushes aside the idea of cheerful, bright Tony as a murderer and pulls her sweater over her head before resting her fingertips on Ice's arm. "He was my friend, too," she says quietly, knowing that this is the closest they will come to talking it out for a very long while.

Ice hesitates, and Velma presses, "Besides, Graziella'll need me."

It's so simple that, true or not, she almost feels guilty for playing that card. He can allow for Graziella and not himself, she thinks, swallowing the ache in her throat. Any other guy, any other night, he'dve said no, straight out. But Riff is—was—his best friend. And Graziella was his girl.

"Okay, then," he says, eyes reluctant. He puts his hands around her waist, holds her for the briefest of moments, then strides to the door. "Let's go."

She follows, staring at his back. Riff. Not Ice. Not this time.

He waits at the door, holds his hand out. "Stay close," he orders.

But what about the next time? Velma thinks, slipping her hand in his. Or the time after that? She shudders, remembering the scarlet starburst on his sleeve, and wonders what is yet to come. She is not ready for this.

There are no answers to these questions, no way to look into the future and find him there safe and waiting or dead, just like Riff. All she can do, Velma thinks, is hold on to his hand and hope that the luck that has kept him safe so far will hold through the night and until the dawn.

.

By the time they cross the street, the window at Graziella's apartment is open and the room is bare, aside from a jumble of clothes on the floor. Her best friend has already come and gone tonight, and where she is now is anybody's guess.

Velma watches Ice study the dark empty room, pale eyes flickering as he considers where to go next. She wants to ask if he's positive. If somehow he's wrong, that Riff is okay after all and it's just another one of his practical jokes that's just gone farther than ever before, a little too far, really, because it's not true. How can it be? How can any of the Jets, let alone Riff—Riff, who'd dodged his own girlfriend in Doc's just a few hours ago—be dead?

But then she looks at Ice and sees the way he can't stop moving, how his gaze slides over her like she's not even there. If she feels this shock, this pain about a boy she's only known a year, what must Riff mean to Ice? she wonders, heart aching for him. He wouldn't have told her, she knows, if he wasn't sure, because _dead_ is a word you can't take back and it is then that it hits her that Riff is really—

"Doc's," decides Ice, scanning the street. "That's where everyone'd go."

Velma bites her lip as they set off into the night. The air is cool against her bare arms and she can't help shivering. "Someone must've come to tell her," she murmurs, worried. "I wonder—"

"Shh," hisses Ice, pressing her into a shadowed doorway. Velma waits, heart racing in the eerie quiet until she sees the lights of the patrol cars pass by. And then Velma, eyes locked on Ice's distant, closed face, understands one thing more: the game has changed. Riff is dead. The night is not yet over. And there are no rules here, no guarantee that everyone will be all right just because she needs them to be; tonight they live and die by chance alone.

"C'mon," Ice says in a low voice. "coast's clear. 'S okay now."

But if she knows anything, Velma thinks, heart twisting as he leads her through the maze of alleys, it's not. And it won't be, for a long time. Maybe, she thinks, not ever.

.

As Ice pushes the door to Doc's open, the bell rings with a tinny, mocking sound and the old man behind the counter lifts his head. There is no one else in the store.

"Doc," Ice says, pulling Velma inside, "ya seen anyone else?"

He stares at them for a moment, and in that half-second of hopeless hope it is obvious that he knows. "I thought it might be Tony."

Ice pauses, and Velma watches as he considers this piece of information and what it means, before striding forward. "Doc, look—"

"You kids," the old man says, and slumps over the counter again as if the weight of this whole night is too much for them. "Fightin' an' brawlin' an' _killin'_—for a little piece-a street?" He glances at Velma, and she can see the sorrow in his tired eyes. "Tell me—d'you think that's worth dyin' for?"

"Doc—"

"No," the old man says, shaking his head with what little force he has left in him. "You see, she does have somethin' to do with it after all."

Ice takes a step back and runs his free hand over his forehead. "Jesus," he murmurs, staring out the window.

Velma doesn't quite understand their exchange, but she is absolutely positive about her answer. "There's only one thing I know worth that," she says, feeling the solid warmth of Ice's hand in hers, "an' it ain't a street."

Doc doesn't say anything, just looks at her. At them. And Velma wonders what he sees in their two hands, linked together. In their eyes.

"Look, Doc," Ice finally tries again, "you know what happened. I just need to know if you've seen anyone."

The old man closes his eyes and rubs his temples. When he answers, it's in that tired voice again. All the strength is gone. "Gee-Tar. Mouthpiece," he says blankly. "They showed up not too long ago—Bernice an' Minnie was already here waitin'," he adds with a nod at Velma.

She frowns. "Minnie?" Velma is pretty sure that Officer Goddard would not have let his daughter out on a night like this. "She was here?"

Doc, eyes still shut, nods. "She snuck out, I think."

At any other time, Velma would be pleased and proud, but tonight the last place on earth a girl like Minnie should be is out on the streets. "Where'd they go?"

"I don't know," admits Doc, shaking his head. "Tiger came in with Graziella—she wasn't takin' it too well," he adds heavily, "an' then Joyboy showed an' said they was all meetin' someplace an' they left. I can't remember."

Velma can see Ice isn't buying it. "Doc."

"Hasn't there been enough tonight?" Doc pleads, glancing from Ice to Velma. "Don't you see where this is going?"

But Ice shakes his head. "Not now," he says steadily, "Doc, there ain't no time for that. Not now."

"You're just kids," Doc says, his voice cracking. "God help me, why can't you understand? _You're just kids_."

"So're the resta the Jets," Ice says, pale eyes fixed on the old man's. "An' I gotta go make sure they're okay."

Doc turns to glance at the back wall, where three scrawled names stand out from the graffitti. Tony. Riff. Ice. All connected. One left the Jets. One died for them. And one—just one—is still here as he was. Doc—he cares about the Jets, Velma realizes with some surprise. Not just wants to get rid of them like every other adult in the city. He really, truly cares.

Doc releases a helpless, frustrated sigh. "It was a garage. Someplace. I don't know the street."

Ice gives a quick nod. "We'll find it." Taking Velma's hand, he heads for the door. Behind them, Doc lets out a short, humorless laugh.

"Don't get killed."

Ice pauses for the briefest moment, and though his voice is even and controlled Velma can hear the undercurrent of tension there as he grips her hand tighter. It's not his fault, she wants to scream. He didn't mean for any of this to happen. No one did.

"I ain't plannin' on it."

"Ain't that it," Doc says, shaking his head. "No one ever is."

Velma glances back and sees the old man bent over the counter. "We'll be okay, Doc," she says. She wishes she could believe it. "We will."

And there is so much sadness, so much defeat in that trembling voice. "Like I told him before," he says without looking up. "It just ain't ever that simple."

.

They're just about two blocks from Doc's when there is a quick whistle. Ice pauses, then returns it as they wait to see who it is. And out of the shadows comes Snowboy, his face smeared with dirt and sweat and something else.

"Ice!" he says. He is more serious than Velma has ever seen him. "Action sent me an' Bobby out to find everyone—"

"Where are they?" asks Ice. Velma wonders at the cool authority in his voice. This is not the boy from just minutes ago, the one who lay quiet and cold and helpless in her arms. "Doc said a garage somewhere."

"Yeah," nods Snowboy, fevered eyes darting around the street. "On 57th. I'll take ya." And then his gaze lands on Velma. "But—maybe she oughta go back to Doc's or somethin'."

Velma stiffens, but Ice shakes his head. "No," he says, and his voice is strong, sure. "She's comin with us'." After a moment, he adds, "Graziella ain't at home. A Jet musta gotten her."

Snowboy seems about to protest, but subsides. "Right, Daddy-O," he says, already beginning to move. "C'mon, I'll take ya."

Velma, hand still in Ice's, follows the Jet through the night and toward the alley where the rest of the gang is waiting. And then it hits her. With Riff gone, she thinks, biting her lip, and Tony not around to lead the Jets, either, would that mean _Ice_…?"

She remembers a conversation with Graziella that seems like an eternity ago and shivers. _If Ice was leader, where'd that leave Riff?_

Oh, God, she thinks, rubbing her arms to try and get warm. She still hasn't really begun to believe it yet—what physical evidence is there, after all? but this small memory, this conversation is the barest surface hint of the seismic devastation that has hit them. Things have already begun to change. And no one knows what is next.

.

When they get to the alley outside the old garage on 57th, Graziella is there, sobbing on Minnie's shoulder. Bernice has an arm around her, too, and Tiger is hovering close, awkward and clumsy and trying his best to help, but the other Jets are spread out and disordered, standing in the alley with fear on every downturned face. No one seems to know what to do.

Velma lets go of Ice's hand and hurries over to the redhead as Tiger moves to hand Ice his jacket. "Graz, honey," she says quietly, pulling her away from a distressed-looking Minnie, "c'mere."

Graziella turns and wraps her arms around her. "Velma, oh, Velma," she wails.

"Shh," she whispers, stroking her best friend's red hair. "Just hold on to me, Graz. It'll be okay."

"He wasn' even s'posed to be fightin'," Graziella sobs. Velma looks over Graziella's shoulder at Ice, who has just ended a whispered conversation with Action. His face doesn't show it, but she knows what he is thinking, and she shakes her head at him. No.

"I know, honey," she murmurs. "I know."

"Every other time he was okay," she chokes out. "Every other time, when it was a rumble with bricks or bats or somethin'. He was just fine. Tony was lookin' out for him, he said."

Velma tightens her hold, heart aching for her friend. "Graz—"

"An' the one time," Graziella goes on, "the one time he's s'posed to just stay outta it—the _one time_—oh, _God_," she cries, clutching at her chest, "oh, God, _Riff_."

"I'm sorry," Velma murmurs, over and over again. "Graz—I'm so sorry." She doesn't know what to say. What _can_ she say? Velma wonders. If it were Ice… She bites her lip, eyes stinging. If it were Ice lying dead on the ground somewhere, there wouldn't be anything that'd help. So she takes her own advice and just holds her best friend close. But for all the physical presence and love in the world, the cold, hard truth remains that Riff is dead, and for Graziella, nothing will ever be the same again. How do you bandage that wound? wonders Velma, her heart aching. How do you make that go away?

"C'mon, Graz," she whispers after the redhead's sobs have subsided to a flow of silent tears. "Sit down."

Graziella nods, and Velma guides her to an overturned crate where she can rest. As she keeps her arm around her friend, Velma glances around. Tiger still lingers close by, but the rest of the Jets—everyone but A-Rab and Baby John—are in a cluster a few feet away, each one tense and coiled as deadly tight as a spring. Ice, jacket on now, has already gotten them organized and is talking to them. She only hears bits and pieces of what he is saying, but Velma can see the expression on his face that says that he is in charge now and she knows they can, too.

"—but Ice—"

"—those goddamn Sharks, they—"

"Cool it," Ice is saying, voice low and firm. "We need to wait. Just cool it."

"But what about—"

"Not now," Ice snaps, zeroing in on Action with a glare. "Just sit tight, an' _wait_."

They are angry and scared and furious but they are listening, Velma notes, with a mixture of fear and pride. Even Action—fists clenched and jaw set as he tries without much success to control himself—is _listening_.

In that small moment of silence, Ice catches her eye and jerks his head at Minnie and Bernice. They are standing frightened and alone near the open entrance to the garage and they, like the Jets, seem helpless and unsure of what to do.

And that was the other thing, Velma remembers suddenly. It's not just Riff. Now that Ice is leader, where does that leave Graziella, the leader's girl? And by default—herself?

Velma glances at her best friend, whose fingers are gripping the small gold cross at her throat so tightly her fingers are white. As the leader's girl, Velma remembers slowly, Graziella took that position with the Jets' girls, too. She spoke for them. She led them. And she was the one who always, always knew what to do.

Velma bites her lip. She hasn't even been here a full year, has known the Jets and their girls for even less time than that. And now—

The only thing she can do is try, she decides. "I'll be right back," she murmurs to Graziella, who doesn't respond, before crossing the few feet over to Bernice and Minnie.

"It's cold," Minnie says in a small voice, shuddering. "Velma, I don't—I don't understand it—I can't believe it—why would—" She takes a deep, trembling breath. It's obvious that she is on the verge of tears. "I don't understand," she says again, and Bernice puts an arm around her.

"No one does," the brunette says, voice stunned and bitter and still somehow kind. "No one does, Minnie, it ain't just you."

Velma takes a deep breath, wondering how innocent, naïve Minnie will survive this. "Go into the garage, Minnie," Velma tells her quietly. "Stay outta sight. Just in case a cop comes by. Okay?"

Minnie nods, obedient as ever, and gulps back a sob. "Okay."

"It'll be warmer, anyway," Velma adds with a sigh, rubbing her own arms with a shiver. The heat of the day is gone and for a summer that has been so hot the night is so cold. It's her turn to catch Ice's eye now, and he knows what she's after. The new Jet captain gestures and says something to Mouthpiece, who detaches himself from the Jets to join Minnie in the garage. If anyone will make the Jets' little sister feel better, Velma knows, it's Mouthpiece.

She turns back to Bernice, who has the strangest expression on her face. "What?" she asks, uncertain. "What is it?"

Bernice shakes her head. "Nothin'," she says, but the way she's looking at Velma doesn't agree with that. "Just thinkin'." She hesitates for a moment. "It's just I don't know how you two ain't runnin' around screamin' your heads off like all the resta us."

Velma bites her lip. "I don't know," she says, looking Bernice full in the face for the first time. It's like seeing Clarice in a wavy, distorted mirror. Just slightly off, but it's there all the same. "Bernice…what happened in Doc's? How'd you find out? An' Graz…" She lets her sentence trail off. "Could ya tell me?"

Bernice looks to the side and inhales before giving Velma a shaky nod. "I was in Doc's," she says, "waitin' for the boys—Minnie'd just come in—an' then Gee-Tar an' Mouthpiece showed up. An' they told us about Riff—that somethin' went wrong, an'—an' then Graziella came in with Tiger, an' well, you saw her," she says, voice quiet. "She's in bad shape."

Velma glances back. The redhead's eyes are closed, and faint drops of perspiration are shining on her pale skin. "What'd Tiger tell her?"

Bernice shrugs. "We don't really know. But enough. Poor thing," she adds, giving Graziella a troubled look before turning back to Velma. "How'd you find out?" she asks, eyes wary. "You were waitin', just like Graz an' Clarice was, right?"

For once Velma doesn't mind the intrusion. Not tonight. "Yeah," she murmurs, seeing that dark figure again and remembering that rush of happiness. It all seems like a dream now. "An' Ice came an' told me. We went by her place, then Doc's, when she wasn't there. An' then Snowboy found us."

"Oh," Bernice says with a sigh, and Velma, gazing at her, wonders for a moment what it must be like to not have anyone waiting just for you. About loneliness, and trying to find something you don't even know you need.

"I guess—Clarice doesn't know, does she?" Velma asks tentatively.

Bernice shakes her head. "No," she says. "Big Deal went by, after, an' told her." Her mouth twists up into something that can't quite be called a smile. "Guess she don't have the pull with the new leader that you do, huh?"

Velma matches her expression. "I guess not. Look, I'd better get back to Graz," she says, feeling uncomfortable. The world is turned on its head all around her and nothing is as it should be tonight and for Velma, this sense of utter helplessness in the face of the night is unnerving. She bites her lip. "But…thanks, Bernice."

The brunette nods, and there again is that strange look on her face. "Sure, Velma."

As Velma turns and makes her way back to Graziella, she glances around. The Jets are quiet now, still figures in the silence. Ice is close to Action, ready to restrain him if needed, but a few of the others have retreated to sit on the trash cans and crates around the alley. Minnie is in the garage with Mouthpiece; Bernice is nearby. And Graziella, huddled against the wall, is still crying.

"Oh, Graz," Velma murmurs as she puts her arms around her best friend again. There isn't anything else she can say, not in the face of Riff's death and the uncertainty of what is to happen next.

Why _aren't_ they crouched over and helpless? Velma wonders suddenly. Bernice has a point. Why aren't they bent over and wailing at the incredible heartless agony of knowing that their leader has been snatched from their midst? Why?

The truth, Velma supposes, if she really wants to think about it, is that she, at least, is still holding it at arms's length. She doesn't want to accept it, and least of all does she want to understand the pain of knowing the boy you love more than anything is dead and never coming back. The truth, she supposes, is that she is sad for Riff, and for Graziella, but what Velma feels more than anything is sheer breathless relief that it was not Ice.

She was happy, she thinks, remembering that moment of release. And if Ice had been the one to fall—

Velma shudders. She can't think about that, now, or ever, or she won't be able to move or breathe or do anything but what Graziella is right now. I'm sorry, she thinks to her best friend. She keeps her arms wrapped around Graziella but her eyes on Ice. I'm sorry that it had to be him.

It takes her a few minutes before Velma realizes that Ice won't look at Graziella. Or any of the Jets; at least not for more than a moment. His gaze skitters over the wall, the pavement, everywhere but them. And Velma, eyes fixed firmly on him, realizes that Ice, far from feeling her relief, actually feels _guilty_ that he is here. That he, and not Riff, made it out without a scratch. That he is alive.

No, she thinks furiously, no. It isn't his fault that he came back to her. She wants to reach out and make him understand that no matter what, it is not his fault and that he shouldn't have to feel sorry for being alive. Not now. Not ever.

As if hearing her thoughts, Ice raises his eyes to hers and holds her gaze for a long, long moment. He doesn't say anything. His expression doesn't change. He just looks at her like they are the only two people left in this world.

But when Action wheels around and demands a cigarette from Tiger, Velma remembers that they are not. Far from it. And that, she understands now, is his reason, why Ice is still moving and not paralyzed by the weight and grief and loss pressing down on him. The night is not yet over. The path to hell has been laid wide open tonight, and the chasm is still there, waiting in the darkness. Ice has a job to do, and he will do it. Because it falls to him, and because that is who he is.

The Jets are taking their cigarettes when Bernice moves forward.

"Gimme a couple," she requests, and Tiger, looking surprised, obediently hands two over. Bernice takes a light from Gee-Tar and exhales a long stream of smoke before she stops and looks at Velma.

"Smoke?" she offers, holding one out. "It'll help."

Velma doesn't smoke, doesn't even like it when Ice does it because then he doesn't smell or taste like him, but tonight she steps forward and lets Ice light one for her. Anything, she thinks, to drive away the cold in her bones.

"D'ya want one, Graziella?" asks Tiger.

"Yeah—no—I don't know," the redhead says, voice cracking. "I guess. Gimme one."

But when Tiger hands it over, Graziella takes a few puffs, then flings the cigarette to the ground in disgust and turns away. Velma doesn't say anything. Nothing will help, she knows. Nothing at all.

Velma leans against the wall and watches as Ice brings the lighter to his cigarette and flips the switch. He shields the flame with his hand, but Velma can still see that flicker of light flaring, sputtering in the darkness. That last little bit of hope in all of them that somehow this is just a dream, that they will wake up and everything will be all right again, because this—this is not how this night was supposed to be.

They stand in stillness, silence, frozen figures clinging to all that is left of their lives. Velma doesn't know what they're waiting for. Maybe, she thinks, the ghost of a smile passing over her face, for the world to end.

And then she glances at Graziella, huddled empty and spent, and remembers that for some of them, it already has.


	14. no exit

Disclaimer: If I owned Ice...yeah, you'd never see him again.

Note: So here we are with another song-based chapter, heh, and once again, if you have questions or comments concerning the way I chose to novelize this particular song, please let me know. I hope you like it.

For: Jerry Robbins, in an effort to appease his spirit for what I have done,** Megfly**, for being so incredibly helpful with feedback on this chapter in particular, and most of all for **HedgehogQuill**, because our friendiversary was yesterday, and because she came up with the best (and probably only) ever _Jurassic Park_ analogy for fta—specifically, you know the raptors are coming and you know what's going to happen, but you still freak out anyway. So, raptors = rumble, eheh.

Proper credit: I tweaked two unused lines from the script to appear here, and you should recognize dialogue from the movie/a song.

—viennacantabile

* * *

fell the angels

fourteen : no exit

.

The four-lettered scholarship that carries a diploma in know-how—how to run, where to hide, how to ride the subway and see a movie and use a pay-phone all without paying—these knowledges that come with a city childhood of block warfare and desperate afternoons when only the cruel and clever, the swift, the brave survive—was the training that gave his eyes their agile intensity.

—Truman Capote, Summer Crossing

.

"I think that you know me well enough, Watson, to understand that I am by no means a nervous man. At the same time, it is stupidity rather than courage to refuse to recognize danger when it is close upon you."

—Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, The Final Problem

.

It's so quiet.

Ice, unmoving, almost thinks she hasn't heard him. And then he feels the small intake of breath and the slight motion of her body underneath him.

"What?" she asks in the stillness, and Ice swallows, fumbles for his shirt. The uncertainty, the confusion in that word is too hard to face and he doesn't want to watch, doesn't want to see her understand.

"It got outta hand when Tony showed up. An' Bernardo knifed Riff."

When Ice hears himself say it, his chest aches a little. Saying it brings it here. Saying it makes it real. And if he lets himself think about it, he can see their bodies stretched out on the pavement, all over again. He can smell the rust-sharp, iron tang of blood in the hot summer air—it won't leave him, and he wonders how she hasn't noticed—and hear that desperate cry of "_Riff, don't!_" ringing through the space underneath the highway. If he lets himself think about it.

But Ice's mind is a little clearer now, and he knows what he has to do. There are eleven other Jets out there tonight, and every single one of them has to be found. Every single one of them has to be kept safe, because if the Jets don't look out for their own, no one else will. Which means, he thinks, forcing his mind ahead as he tugs his shirt down and reaches for his belt, that he's got a job to do.

"Oh, God," Velma says. Her voice is hushed, horrified. And Ice, with a sense of resignation, knows now that no matter what, she will never look at him the same way again.

Things change, he thinks as he gets to his feet. Even the things you don't want to, ever. Even the things you thought were always going to be there. Even the things you thought would always be the same.

He doesn't want to let her go with him, but he has to. Once she's heard the details of what happened under the highway, she won't take no for an answer, no matter what he says. And if he's honest with himself, Ice is almost relieved that she mentions Graziella—as long as he's telling the truth, he needs her, too. But the one fact is reason enough to take the risk; the other isn't.

"Stay close," he warns, reaching for her hand. When they get out there, yeah, he'll do his best to make damn sure she gets back home in one piece, but he also has to do the same for the Jets, and Ice is very suddenly aware that his best just isn't enough tonight. Not for Riff. And maybe not for him.

.

It's not until they're in Doc's and under that harsh white light that it dawns on him exactly what kind of situation they're in.

With Riff dead, he thinks, there are three options. One: Ice, the former lieutenant, leads, which he guesses he can do but isn't sure he really wants to. Two: Action, as the only other Jet with a spine and half a brain, takes over, which is absolutely ridiculous and guaranteed to get the Jets knocked flat in ten seconds. And three: well, thinks Ice, in the old days, the answer would have been obvious—Tony.

But it isn't the old days, and as much as Ice doesn't really want to take over, he's not sure Tony has it in him to do it anymore. The Sharks wouldn't be afraid of him at all, not after seeing him beg off from that fight the way he did. And then there's also that horrible, stomach-churning thought that Ice keeps pushing away—that even though he didn't mean for it to happen, Tony had a lot to do with Riff's death. An awful lot.

Not intentionally, of course. But Tony didn't think things through, that's for sure, and that is exactly what the next Jet leader has to do. Think, and figure out what to do to avoid the worst.

But how could they have known? Ice wonders, as his eyes trace the shapes of the tables and chairs the Jets had occupied just hours ago, how could they have known? And he doesn't want to look at Doc, doesn't want to face him, when by the old man's warning it's almost as if he made it happen. How could Doc have known? How could he have been so sure, when none of them ever could have guessed?

"Not now," he says, and he means it. He can't think about what else the old man might know, might understand, when all that matters is where they go from here. "Doc, there ain't no time for this. Not now."

"You're just kids," Doc pleads, his voice old and tired and so raw tonight. "God help me, why can't you understand? _You're just kids_."

And that's the thing, Ice thinks. But for the one point of warmth radiating from his right hand, he is alone, uncertain, and so very, very cold. Riff is dead, the Jets are scattered, and Ice, on his own now, has never felt so young before. What is he supposed to do now? he wants to know, when everything he ever knew is ashes and dust in the wind?

For the first time in his life, he wishes he had a father.

.

It's somehow easier to push everything away when they get to the alley and the Jets are waiting without purpose, massed around a girl whose bright flaming hair reminds Ice of something; he can't remember what. A girl who can't stop crying because everything she ever thought she knew is a lie. Riff is dead, Ice thinks. And again, it's as if someone else very strange and very foreign is saying it. Riff is dead.

In one swift motion, Velma slips her hand out of his and goes to Graziella. She is doing her duty as his girl and her friend, he realizes with surprise and even pride, because it is not only the Jets who have been hurt tonight, and it is not only the Jets who will have a part to play in what is to come. They are all in this now.

When Tiger shuffles over and holds out a blue jacket, Ice doesn't get it. Riff, he remembers, Riff took off his jacket to fight. But why would Tiger bring it back for Ice when—

Ice stares at Tiger for a second before taking it. He hadn't even noticed, he thinks in a daze, hadn't even noticed he'd left his goddamn jacket back under the highway, where any jumped up police officer could find it and use it to prove he was there, watching Riff fall. That is exactly the kind of detail that Ice, being Ice, _has_ to notice, or they're all dead. That is exactly the kind of detail Ice searches for when he goes over and over the night in his mind, replaying the sequence of events that resulted in a knife sticking out of his best friend's gut. And that, Ice thinks, wanting to slam his fist in the wall, is just one out of the many he had to have missed. Maybe not the one that led to all of this. But it's there, all the same.

Graziella is still wailing; Ice shifts his glance over to where Velma is holding the redhead in her arms.

God, he thinks again, stunned by the blind unfairness of it all, if he'd only just knocked Bernardo out sooner…

Ice sets his jaw and tugs his jacket back on. He is not going to miss anything else. He is the leader now, and the Jets are his responsibility. He has to keep them alive. And, he thinks—that pale moonlight washing over all their faces and glinting off one blonde head—the stakes are too high to fail again.

"Listen up," he says to them, taking a deep breath and squaring his shoulders. "This is what we're gonna do."

.

By the time Graziella has quieted and the Jets have settled into an uneasy silence, the cigarette in Velma's slack hand has faded to ash.

Ice glances at her wan, troubled face. "Everything okay?" He could be talking about the Jets' girls, or this whole night, but he figures she'll know what he means. She always does.

Velma shifts, shivers, doesn't quite meet his eyes. "It's cold," she says, answering his question with one of her own.

"Want me to see ya home?" asks Mouthpiece from just beside her, fidgeting.

Though Velma doesn't look at him, just shakes her head, by now it's instinct: Ice shoots him a glare that sends him scurrying over to the garage for even daring to think about it. The guy just doesn't seem to get that Velma is _Ice's_ girlfriend, not Mouthpiece's, and Jet or no Jet, Ice will still clobber him if he so much as—

And then he starts to wonder.

If she did want to go home, Ice thinks, thoughts coming slower and slower, he wouldn't be able to do it himself. He has to stay here, with the boys. He can't just go off with his girl and pretend like he's got nothing to be responsible for anymore. If Riff were around, sure. Maybe he could do it then. But Riff's dead, Ice thinks grimly, and things change. This is is how it has to be.

Ice takes a long, deep drag of his cigarette and steps back. He is only just beginning to understand how things will change; now, and in the future. But there is no help for it. This is how it is. And this is how it has to be.

.

Ice, pacing up and down the alley, is almost ashamed of the little flicker of hope that runs through him when that sound pierces the air—three quick notes that anyone could whistle but only the Jets recognize as their own. There are only three of them missing, if you count Tony, and as he hurries forward, eager for something, anything to break the blank monotony of just sitting there trying to be okay when nothing is, Ice isn't sure who he wants it to be.

He whistles back, snaps his fingers to give the all-clear, and two small figures pop up over the fence and climb down. A-Rab and Baby John. Ice turns back, claps an edgy Action on the shoulder as the two Jets race over. "Stand down; just the rank-an'-file."

Turning to A-Rab and Baby John, Ice gives them the once-over. It's been at least an hour since the rumble and he'd nearly given them up for stuck in the can overnight, but they're both in one piece, at least. He grabs A-Rab by the shoulders, a little harder than he means to in his relief. "Hey, where ya been?"

"Where ya think we been, the Stork Club?" A-Rab snorts as Baby John trudges to a crate and collapses onto it.

"We thought they nabbed ya!" Snowboy explains.

"Aww, go on," scoffs A-Rab, wiping his grimy face with his sleeve.

Ice's gaze darts to the rest of the alley to confirm empty space and shadows. "Ya didn't see Tony, huh?"

A-Rab shakes his head. "Nah, nothin' but coppers."

Ice sighs and lifts his cigarette to his mouth. Of course. He's about to take a long, deep drag when he hears Action's gruff voice:

"What's wrong with _him_?"

Ice pivots to see A-Rab rush over to Baby John, who's turned away. "There's nothin' wrong with him, he's okay, ya get it?" the shorter boy snaps at Action. Ice furrows his brow and takes a closer look, lowering his cigarette. Usually, A-Rab gets along better with Action than anyone else does and it's strange to see the two at odds.

The short, burly Jet is surprised, too. "All right, all right!" he retorts, but Ice keeps his eyes on A-Rab. The Jet has his hands on Baby John's shoulders, bracing the kid up. There's something going on there, Ice realizes with a sigh, and it's probably his job now to figure out what.

"Maybe we oughta go home," suggests Snowboy, face despondent.

"For what?" snaps Action.

"Betcha they got him," decides Big Deal.

"Not Tony," Ice says adamantly. Tony might be dumber than he used to be, but there is no way he'd let himself get caught by the cops tonight. At least, Ice doesn't think so. Though at this point, nothing would surprise him.

"Oh, man, he was great," pipes up A-Rab, latching on to their old leader like a lucky rabbit's foot. He turns to his best friend and jogs his shoulder. "Huh, Baby John?"

Baby John finally turns around to face the rest of the Jets, face brightening, and nods. "Oh, yeah," he agrees fervently as Ice turns back to scan the night for Tony again, "he really come through for the Jets."

A-Rab grins. "Just like Riff said he—"

It's like he's fired a bullet. Ice, his back to the rest of them, stiffens, glad they can't see his face because the mention of Riff is suddenly more than he can take right now.

"—said he would," finishes a subdued A-Rab before retreating into silence.

For once, none of the other Jets has anything to say, either, and in the quiet that follows, Ice becomes aware of dry, racking sobs getting louder and louder. He sighs, and turns back around. Graziella.

"Riff," she chokes out, voice climbing into a high, keening wail. "Riff, I want _Riff!_"

So do we, Graz, Ice thinks grimly as he watches the redhead bury her face in Velma's waist, so do we.

None of them quite knows how to react to this, and Ice is relieved after all that he let Velma come along; there's no way he would have been able to handle Graziella without her. Most of the Jets turn away, but Mouthpiece rushes over, hands outstretched. "Come on, Graziella," he pleads, settling in next to the two girls.

"Gee," murmurs Tiger, glancing fearfully at Baby John and A-Rab over Graziella's sobs, "nobody was supposed to get—killed. It just—" He tosses his cigarette onto the concrete. There is nothing more he can say. What _can_ you say, wonders Ice, turning back around to watch the horizon for Tony, when everything that wasn't supposed to happen did?

"They're gonna pay," growls Action.

"Them stinkin' Sharks," mutters A-Rab.

Ice glances back; he doesn't like the edge to the Jets' voices that says they are ready to go out swinging right now. Sure, Ice wants the PRs to go down, too, but he knows none of them is ready for this. They need time, they need a plan—

"Dirty fighting," agrees Snowboy helplessly.

A-Rab nods. His voice is low and sullen. "They started it—"

"So why don't we finish it?" demands Action, slicing the air with his hands.

Ice narrows his eyes. This is going too far, too fast. "Cool it, Action—"

But Action, it seems, is just warming up. "We gotta show 'em who's on top!"

Joyboy slams his fist into his hand. "The Jets!"

Ice glares at them. "Hold it—"

But it's clear Action isn't listening as the Jets chime in with their agreement. "Let's do it now!"

"Easy—"

"_Don't we had enough?_"

The question comes from Baby John, who seems half-terrified at his own daring as every single Jet turns to look at him.

Action, in particular, isn't happy, and makes sure to let the kid know. "Whatsa matter, you scared?"

Baby John's lip visibly trembles, but he stands his ground. "Wh—who you callin' scared?"

Ice rolls his eyes as he moves forward. The kid doesn't seem to realize that Action would happily beat him into the ground right now, and it's Ice's job to keep _all_ of them in one piece. Including Baby John. So he grabs the boy's jacket front and pulls him away. "Kid—"

But Baby John isn't paying attention to him at all. His gaze is fastened on the squabble between A-Rab and Action which Ice has just noticed next to him. _Jesus_, he thinks in frustration, I turn my back for _one second_—

And just like that, the scuffle has erupted into a brawl, and the two Jets are at each others' throats. Ice reaches for Action. "_Knock it off!_" And then all of them are pushing and shoving in the chaos, trying to get the two Jets off of each other, and Ice is just wrestling Action back when there is the crash of shattering glass and a scream that Ice recognizes as Velma's.

"Shut up down there, ya dirty buncha good-for-nothings!" snarls a dark-haired, beery-eyed man from a window. "Why don'tcha go home where ya belong?"

Action struggles free and darts forward. "Who ya callin' good-for-nothin', ya loudmouth-crudhead?" Ice, unbalanced and staggering a bit, stumbles as he regains his footing. What the hell? he thinks, angry now. What the hell do they think they're doing at a time like this?

But Action isn't done yet—he- hoists up a broken piece of concrete. "Come down here an' I'll put this through your stupid face!"

And suddenly Ice has _had_ it with this bunch. Don't they want to _live_ past tomorrow? Barreling over to Action, he grabs the shorter Jet by the jacket and all but body-slams him in the direction of the garage, herding the rest of them inside, too. "_Get inside_! All of ya!"

Shouting and yelling, the Jets and their girls stumble into the darkness as Ice furiously slides the door shut behind them and turns to glare at them. "_Shut up_!"

But Action still rages as Ice stalks to the nearest van and fumbles through the open window with a soundless curse. "I don' have to take that from nobody! Next creep who sounds on me, I swear, the next guy who gets in my craw—"

"YOU'LL LAUGH!"

Trapped in the glow of blinding white headlights, the Jets fall silent as Ice advances on them, breathing low and fast as he looks each and every one of them in the eye. He has their attention now, and he'll be damned if he's going to waste it. Because this is not a joke anymore, and there is one thing they all have to get straight. "Yeah," Ice goes on, voice tight and deadly serious as he points at Action, "now you all better dig this, an' dig it good. No matter who or what is eatin' you—man, you show it, an' you are _dead!_"

The noise of a flipped switch, and the garage is bathed in more white light. He looks up and is startled to see Velma at the window of another car. That's my girl, he thinks, but doesn't let himself smile. There is no time for that anymore.

"You are cuttin' a hole in yourselves, for _them_ to stick in a red-hot umbrella, an' open it—wide," Ice goes on. They need to get it, they need to figure the goddamn status quo out, because if they don't, there's only so much he can do. His voice quiets. "Man, you wanna get past the cops when they start askin' about tonight?" He pauses and glances around before straightening up and taking a deep breath. There is only one answer to this. "Ya play it cool." Ice swallows a bitter laugh. "Ya wanna live in this _lousy_ world? Play it cool."

"I wanna get even!" protests Action, chopping the air.

Ice shakes his head. "Get cool."

"I wanna bust!" chimes in A-Rab.

Ice doesn't budge an inch. "_Bust_ cool."

But Action is still rocket-hot, darting forward. "I wanna _go_!"

Ice grabs his arm, yanks him back. "Go _cool!_" The air of the garage presses close and warm on his skin and he can feel them ready to explode at any moment. They still don't get it, he thinks, casting his hard gaze around at them. They're just kids—all of them. Little boys. "You're runnin' crazy," Ice hisses at the shorter Jet as he lets him go. "_Think_ for a second, why don't ya? You keep bustin' all your life like a hot air-balloon an' you'll be six feet under in five minutes _just like them_." Ice doesn't say their names, but he hears a dry sob from Graziella all the same. He's sorry for it, but for the sake of all the Jets who are still alive, it has to be said.

"You—all of you," he adds, looking around at the Jets as he searches for the words that will get _through_ to them— "think about more'n right now, will ya? We got our whole lives in front-a us. _High times_, man. But ya won't _get_ to 'em, 'less ya take it slow an' _cool it_."

Action snorts in disbelief. "What are ya, frontin' for Glad Hand?" And he slams his fists onto the hood of a car; the metallic _thud_ echoes in the claustrophobic garage.

Ice whirls on him. "Easy, Action!" he warns, watching the hot-tempered boy with narrowed eyes. When he's sure the Jet isn't going to bolt, he settles back a bit, but doesn't relax his fierce gaze. "Look, ya wanna die an old man all cozy in bed? Or even live past eighteen?" he demands. The dark-haired boy doesn't answer, but Ice takes his silence for assent and, frustrated, snaps his fingers for emphasis. "Then play it cool. They say somethin' stupid? Treat ya like ya don't know nothin'? Don't get hot, man, just keep your mouth _shut_ an' your head _down_. Live it up, sure—but _play it cool_."

"So you're sayin' we just sit back an' make like the Sharks didn't just—you know?" asks an incredulous A-Rab, convulsively hitting the palm of his hand with the other fist. His laugh is strangled, spastic, almost a nervous giggle. "I never figured ya for such a lousy buddy, Ice!"

Ice gives a short, razor-sharp shake of his head. "_No_," he barks, anger flaring. "I'm _sayin'_ we gotta _think_ first, 'fore we run out with guns blazin' an' go down in flames. You think I didn't just see what you saw out there? 'Course I did. An' I wanna get the Sharks just as much as all of ya." He glares around at all of them. "An' we _will_. Later. But we _ain't_ gonna do it if we yo-yo around like jumped-up snot-nosed little kids first!"

A-Rab looks vaguely reassured—at least his hands pause—but the boy next to him does not. "How're we gonna do it, then?" asks Baby John, voice quavering. "What else can we do that we ain't already done?"

Ice swings around to eye him. "It's gonna take time, an' a plan."

"What kinda plan?" Snowboy asks, hands jammed in his pockets, pacing up and down the narrow alley between two cars. He gives Ice a helpless look. "Gee, I don't know what—"

"Well, I do," Ice replies, voice surer than he feels. "An' I'll let ya know what kinda plan, soon's I think of it. Stay loose, buddy-boys, an' we'll fix 'em."

"I don't care _what_ kinda plan it is, as long's ya get them murderers who got Riff!" bursts out Graziella shrilly, her barely-in-check hysteria bubbling over again as she pushes her way over towards him. "He wasn't even s'posed to be _fightin'_, an' he—those _knives_—you _get_ those dirty bastards, Ice, I don't care how!"

It's not the first time Graziella's said it tonight, and now, as before, Velma turns her eyes to him even as she hurries through the Jets to her best friend, followed by a distressed Minnie, though Bernice hangs back. But Ice avoids her gaze. He knows what she is trying to tell him, and he's not any more convinced than he was out in the humid summer night. Everything looks different from where she stands.

"We will," he repeats grimly, snapping his fingers in an offbeat, restless staccato as his mind darts ahead, trying to think of all the ways this already fucked-up night can get even worse. If he can imagine it, he can prevent it, Ice thinks (which he supposes was the problem before: no one ever would have supposed Tony would show up to do what he did, not in a million years). It's not just the Jets here tonight, there are four girls, too, and Ice has to calculate them into every possibility he thinks up. He's positive he can count on at least two of them to keep it together and stay calm, but fifty percent guaranteed is not good enough tonight. Ice needs to be absolutely sure of all of them.

"Look, all that I just said to them?" he says, pale eyes traveling from Graziella, over to Minnie, back to Bernice, and last of all to Velma. "Goes double for you. Easy does it," he reminds them again. "If they're dumb the coppers'll leave our girls alone, but since this ain't exactly your regular rumble as went down tonight, I ain't countin' on that. They're gonna be askin' ya what ya know about it. 'Specially you," he adds to Minnie, the police officer's daughter, "an' ya gotta remember to play it cool. Don't let 'em think you're rattled. Remember: _you don't know anythin_'. Got it?"

Silent nods from the four girls. And only Velma's, slow and measured, doesn't look afraid of him. Her gaze doesn't leave him; Ice has to look away first. He wants—well, there's no time for what he wants now.

Graziella's sobs are coming in short, shallow gasps, still, and Ice catches Tiger's eye, jerks his head at the redhead. Eyes widening, Tiger hurries over and puts his arm around Graziella, tentatively murmuring what Ice supposes must be Tiger's idea of comfort. She gives a shaky nod, gulping visibly, and takes a deep breath. She was a Jet's girl, Ice remembers, and even she understands what is expected of that title.

Snowboy, seeing this, taps Mouthpiece on the shoulder and they tag along over to Minnie and Bernice to likewise offer shoulders to cry on. But Mouthpiece bypasses the brunette and makes a beeline for Velma instead. Ice's eyes narrow as the tall, blond, lanky Jet clumsily pats his leader's girlfriend on the back—now, more than ever, Ice heartily regrets his hard-won self-control. But though he'd like nothing more than to slam his fist into Mouthpiece's dopey face for even touching Velma, Ice has been through this before and he knows that now is not the time. The Jets are balanced on a razor-sharp knife edge right now, and if he loses them, everything will go to hell.

So Ice tears his eyes away from his girlfriend, focuses back on the Jets and inhales deep and slow, forcing himself to concentrate on what he has to do. "Look, all of ya—turn off the juice, right now. Think easy, breezy, _freezy_ cool, an' we'll make it through an' live to get 'em later." He glances at a twitchy, jumpy A-Rab. "Got it, A-Rab?"

The younger Jet gives a short jerk of the head, stuffing his hands in his pockets. He gives a chuckle like he still can't believe this whole messed-up night. "Sure, Ice."

Ice turns to silent, stone-faced Gee-Tar and Big Deal in the back. "Buddy-boys?"

Gee-Tar nods, and Big Deal moves over to clap his leader on the shoulder. "Dig, Daddy-O."

The title is his now, Ice realizes. Just another thing that has changed tonight. He glances around. "Joyboy? Snowboy, Mouthpiece, Tiger?"

All four of them make some kind of movement, gesture, sound, that means yes, we are going to follow you, and yes, we are going to do what you say, because at this point, there's not really much choice. That's good enough for Ice, at least for now.

He turns to Baby John, but the kid is already offering up a tremulous nod. Things are really shot to pieces when Baby John is on board, Ice thinks with a sigh, but at this moment, it's better to err on the side of caution. At least until they find Tony and figure out what to do.

Last of all, Ice focuses on a restless Action, who has been quiet for the last few minutes. "Action?"

The Jet avoids his gaze, shifting from side to side. The harsh beam of the headlights throws him into sharp relief. "I don't like—"

"_Action_," Ice cuts in, his voice like steel. "Ya either got it, or ya don't. An' if ya don't—" He pauses, then forges on, because if the Jets are going to survive, they all need to understand this one simple thing. "You'll get out."

It's the first time Ice—or any of them, really—has laid down the law on Action like that, and the silence is louder than anything he's ever heard before. The Jets are all staring, wondering if Action is going to push back, challenge for leadership not even two hours after Ice has taken it. And Ice, to be honest, is not so sure about this himself.

Action glares at him for a long moment, dark gaze furious and resentful and wary, but at last, he gives a slow nod. "Got it," he mutters.

Breathing a mental sigh of relief, Ice pivots slowly on his heel, glancing one last time at each and every one of them, boy and girl. He is reassured by what he sees. They are—if not exactly cool—not in any danger of bursting like the Fourth of July anymore.

"Okay," he says slowly, deliberately, gripping Action's shoulder. "Let's go."

As he turns and leads the Jets back to the way they came in, Ice's gaze flashes to the letters painted in red on the door in front of him. He has never been superstitious, but the phrase written there is an all too real idea of what they are up against. No exit. No way out. Buddy, thinks Ice with a silent, bitter laugh as the words burn themselves into his mind, you've got that right.

He is the leader, though, and it is his job to make damn sure they _find_ their path out of this mess. And so Ice reaches for the heavy door, pushes it open with the grating of metal on metal, and guides the Jets out of the concrete garage and into the blackness of the summer night, careful steps punctuated by the occasional edgy growl from the boys behind him. But Ice doesn't look back. If they haven't gotten it by now, they never will.

The air outside the garage is cool relief against his damp skin. Ice breathes in, long and slow, and tastes the faint metallic dampness in the air. Judging from the dull glow of the streetlights reflecting off the damp pavement, it has only just stopped raining. Riff or no Riff, best friend or no best friend, he supposes, the world around them keeps moving forward. It's not even two hours past, and already everything looks different.

At the crunch of shattered glass underfoot, he pauses, following the bright gleaming shards' route back up the brick wall and to the unbroken glass above. The Jets, too, stop and stare for a long moment, until Action makes a pistol with his thumb and forefinger and aims it at the window.

"Pow!" he whispers, and Ice, although he wonders uneasily if this is a promise for later, jerks his head and begins to move again.

"Hey, where we goin'?" Baby John wants to know as they spill out from the alley and into the glimmering street.

"Look, if we lay low, the coppers're gonna smell fish," Ice explains, mind racing forward, "so the first thing we do—"

"_Hey, buddy-boys!_"

Ice glances back and sees a familiar skinny figure chasing after them. Great, he thinks, Anybodys. Just who they need right now.

"Aww, go wear a skirt," Action jeers.

Anybodys will have none of this. "Aww, I got scabby knees. Listen!"

Ice doesn't particularly feel like it. "The first thing we do, we start showin' around, like we got nothin' to hide—"

"Well, supposin' they ask us about the rumble?" A-Rab asks over Anybodys's shouts.

But before Ice can answer, Anybodys finally gets her opening, racing around the Jets to stop right in front of him: "Supposin' they ask ya where's Tony, an' what party's lookin' for him—with a _gun_!"

At this last word, Ice narrows his eyes. "Hey, you _know_ somethin'?"

Anybodys smirks a little and starts to turn away. "I know I gotta go get a _skirt_."

Annoyed, Ice seizes her arm and yanks her back. "Come _on_, Anybodys!"

"Aww, what's the freak know?" scoffs A-Rab.

Anybodys whips her head around to glare at him. "Plenty. I figured _somebody_ oughta infiltrate PR territory an' spy around." Her voice takes on a dramatic cast. "I'm very large with shadows, y'know—I can slip in an' outta them like wind through a fence!"

Ice rolls his eyes, wondering why she is choosing now to test his patience when he has so little of it left. The Jets, from the looks of it, aren't too impressed either.

"Hoo, boy, is _she_ ever makin' the most of it!" snorts Snowboy.

Anybodys whirls around. "You bet your fat A, I am!"

Fed up, Ice grabs the front of her shirt. They don't have _time_ for her little games tonight, especially if she's telling the truth; doesn't she _get_ it? "_Spill it_!"

"_Okay_," Anybodys snaps, yanking her arm back. "I hear Chino tell the Sharks somethin' about Tony an' Bernardo's sister. An' _then_ I hear Chino say, if it's the last thing I do, I'm gonna get that Polack. An' then—he pulls out the bad news." She makes a pistol with her thumb and forefinger, the gesture echoing Action's from minutes ago, and gazes at it, blue eyes troubled. Ice stares at her. Suddenly he feels like he's going to be sick. Not Tony. Not him, too.

"Gee," breathes Baby John.

A-Rab throws his hands up. "What'd I tell ya; them PRs won't stop—"

And Action, apparently having forgotten everything Ice said in the garage, voices his agreement. "'Til _we_ stop 'em!"

"_Hold it_!" Ice barks, gritting his teeth. Not this again, he thinks, frustrated. Right now, they have more important things to think about. Like keeping one of their own alive and bullet-free. "Now, listen—Tony come through for us; _we_ gotta come through for Tony. We gotta find him before Chino finds him."

"And burns him!" Snowboy adds fearfully.

"You guys cover the river!" Ice orders, and Joyboy, Mouthpiece, and Tiger race off into the night. "Snowboy, get over to the docks."

"I'll take the back alleys," volunteers Baby John, dashing away.

"I an' Graziella will take to the streets," Velma tells him. Ice briefly locks eyes with her before she goes, but there's no time for more than a quick, "Right." One by one, the places where Tony might be are divided: Gee-Tar takes the Park, Big Deal the schoolyard, A-Rab and Action the playground. After all the Jets have gone, Ice is breaking into a run when he hears Anybodys's shout.

"Hey, what about me?"

Ice wheels around and advances on the short, skinny girl, looking her up and down. "You?"

She nods almost shyly. "Uh-huh."

Ice lifts his hand and darts a quick, serpentine motion through the air. "In an' outta the shadows. Maybe you'll find Tony in one-a them."

"Right!" Anybodys agrees excitedly, and as she starts to rocket away, it's Ice's turn to raise his voice.

"Hey!"

Anybodys stops, turns around, blue eyes eager for an order.

Ice sizes her up. They're a man down, now, and he has to admit, the kid has a head on her shoulders. Even if it's a girl's head. He gives a short nod of grudging respect. "Ya done good, buddy-boy."

It's probably the first time he's ever seen her smile, and he's struck by how much younger she looks when she's not scowling her head off. "_Thanks_—Daddy-O!" she breathes, before sprinting off faster than he's ever seen her go before.

He stares after her for a moment. She's a good kid, he supposes, cracking a half-smile, a lot better than she lets on. Which maybe might mean she'd work as a Jet. Maybe. She's no Riff, thinks Ice with a sigh as he lopes off into the darkness, but then, no one ever will be.


	15. by that sin

Disclaimer: I mean, just so you know? I actually own the concept of fanfiction. So you all owe me royalties. Yeah. :)

Note: Oops. It's not Friday. -_- I'll just say it was a very, very busy week that involved moving three years of apartment stuff into my parents' house over an hour away and lots of Rockstar energy drinks. And finally finishing merry christmas with love. And also it was just a very lengthy writing process. -_- Fair warning: I am undecided as to whether or not the fic needs to be expanded, and if I can't figure that out, chapter sixteen may very well be late, too. Apologies to the few people who are actually reading this, heh. XD

For: **HedgehogQuill**, for understanding how swamped I was this week. And Colm Wilkinson, Frances Ruffelle, and Judy Kuhn, for their _Les Miserables_ recordings that fixed my frustration with this chapter.

—viennacantabile

* * *

fell the angels

fifteen : by that sin

.

"That's the way we all begin," said Tom Platt. "The boys they make believe all the time till they've cheated 'emselves into bein' men, an' so till they die - pretendin' an' pretendin'."

—Rudyard Kipling, Captains Courageous

.

You cannot save people, you can only love them.

— Anaïs Nin, The Diary Of Anaïs Nin, Volume Two (1934-1939)

.

They don't make it three blocks before Graziella stops still in the middle of the sidewalk. Velma trades a fearful glance with Minnie before putting her arm around her best friend. "Graz?"

Graziella is silent for a moment before she sighs. "Riff never lets us hang around the Jets. Remember? 'You chicks cut out.' That's what he always says. We ain't any goddamn use to him."

Velma, disturbed by her best friend's lapse, doesn't know what to say. "Graz—"

"It don't feel real," she whispers, eyes unseeing. "I keep waitin' for him to come around an' tell me off for bein' so _dumb_ or somethin'—"

Minnie takes a step forward, her heart-shaped face pale. "Graziella—"

The redhead chokes out a bitter laugh. "God. The hell am I sayin'?"

Velma bites her lip and wishes in silent desperation that she could figure out the right thing to say. She is the leader's girl now. She is supposed to know what to do. But more than that, she is Graziella's best friend. "Graz, I—"

"Don't," the redhead whispers. Her voice is flat, exhausted, and even though there is no malice behind the word, it stings all the same. "Don't you get it? You still got your guy. You're lucky. You don't understand. You don't want to. Don't."

Velma takes a deep, shuddering breath and glances at Minnie, who looks helplessly back. "I—"

"Don't," repeats Graziella, voice dead, and begins walking once more.

As they follow, Minnie reaches out and touches Velma's shoulder. "She doesn't mean it," she murmurs, wide eyes anxious. "She's just sad, that's all."

Velma nods. "I know," she says. But the problem, she thinks, feeling sick, is the idea that Graziella—heartbroken, devastated Graziella—is right. There is no way Velma can understand her best friend's pain, and as selfish as it feels to admit it, she doesn't want to have to. Not now, and not ever.

Even worse is that this Graziella—this hollow, dry-eyed ghost of her best friend—is not the girl who wailed in the alley outside the garage, begging for comfort, illusion, anything to help her believe that the truth could be a lie. Velma is not afraid that this Graziella will run, kicking and screaming and fighting against the sheer unfairness of it all. No, thinks Velma, eyes on her best friend's back, this Graziella is drained of all feeling and life and emotion and that is what scares her the most.

.

There is no one on the rain-soaked streets tonight. Not even the usual bums and drifters panhandling or dozing off a bender are out. Which, on the one hand, thinks Velma, is good because Minnie is with them, but on the other, it makes this starless night even eerier. It's as if they are the only ones still living in the world, the only ones left under the moon.

"Keep an eye out for cops," murmurs Velma, mindful of Ice's warning. "I think we could throw 'em off, but it'd be easier not to have to."

Minnie nods. Graziella just shrugs, face pinched. Velma, scanning her best friend's face yet again, bites her lip. Cops, at this point, are the least of her worries.

Something is bothering Velma, and she can't quite tell what it is. It's like she's missing something obvious, something she should know. Something important. And somewhere out there is a boy with a gun and no uncertainty at all.

She wishes she could see Ice, even if only for a moment. Just to make sure he's still all right.

"Where do you think Tony could be?" asks Minnie, voice tentative and scared.

Velma glances at Graziella. She doesn't know Tony all that well—by the time she met him almost a year ago, he was already distracted; maybe even already, she guesses now, planning on leaving the Jets. So Graziella—having known him for years—would probably have the best idea of where Tony might run. "I don't know. Graz?"

The redhead swallows hard, and Velma starts to worry before she shakes her head and sighs. "Doc's, maybe. Or the Park. I don't know."

"Gee-Tar has the Park," remembers Velma, "an' if Tony gets to the candy store Doc'll take care-a him. I bet the boys'll meet up there, anyway."

"Maybe we'll find him," offers Minnie, glancing around the dark streets. Velma wonders if she's ever been out this late before.

"Someone will," she promises, but what she doesn't say is that someone could very well be Chino.

.

They cover the streets in silence, eyes peering in every direction for a face that could be Tony's. Velma glances from Minnie to Graziella, worried about both. She almost wishes Minnie hadn't snuck out—it'd be all right on any other night, but tonight Velma has to agree with Officer Goddard. It is too dangerous for her here. And Graziella—well, Velma doesn't know if her best friend will ever be all right again. If it weren't for Tony, Velma would take her home, away from the streets and Sharks and every bit of the territory Riff once called his. But as it is, they don't have time if they want to save Riff's best friend.

Tony, Velma thinks, holding back a sigh. It's hard to imagine any of the Jets—even Action, really—as a murderer. From the little she'd seen of him, Tony had seemed like one of those guys who had everything, and made you believe you could, too. Even the Jets. And even their girls.

And then Velma, inhaling, figures that obvious little detail out. Their girls. "Wait," she says, trying to hide her anxiety and kicking herself for not figuring it out before. "Where's Bernice?"

Graziella, giving her a surprised look, shrugs, but Minnie's eyes widen. "I think—I think I heard her say she was going to go home," she says. "She was telling Big Deal after we left the garage."

"Oh," says Velma, relief flooding her. "That's good." It isn't so much that she'd been worried about her—she knows the Gambini twin can take care of herself—but Bernice is one of them, and Velma doesn't want anything happening to anyone else. No matter how much they haven't gotten along in the past. She remembers Bernice's arm around Minnie, and the look in her dark eyes, and exhales. She doesn't know. Everything is different now.

Is this what it's like to be Ice tonight? she wonders, biting her lip. Velma has never had to consider the problems of leadership before, and she doesn't quite like it. To feel like everyone is looking at you for answers and you can't say that you don't know any better than they do, you can't, because you are the one they are counting on?

Velma sighs. At any rate, she thinks, there is nothing she can do about it now, and it just makes her that much more determined to help the Jets and find their former captain. She glances at Graziella and Minnie. The redhead is staring down the street, but Minnie is watching Velma with hopeful, trusting eyes. And she can't let them down. "Let's go by Doc's an' see if anyone's found him, okay?"

Graziella just nods. "I bet he's fine. It's Tony," she says, her voice barely more than a hoarse whisper as a shadow of a smile flits across her face. "No PR's gonna catch him."

Velma nods, encouraged by this sign of life. "A-course not, Graz," she agrees. "He's too smart for 'em."

"I hope he's there," murmurs Minnie as they near the candy store, her small voice earnest. "I hope we—"

And then they hear the gunshot, followed by the loudest silence she's ever heard.

Velma feels all the air go out of her in an instant as a desperate fear takes hold. "Graz—Minnie—"

The younger girl shakes her head, eyes huge. "Velma—that's not—that can't be—"

"'Course it is," Graziella says. "What else _would_ it be?" Her bloodless face is closed over and her voice is lifeless but there is death walking the streets and Velma has no time to comfort her now. She has to stay calm, and she has to lead. And Velma, mind running over everything that was and is and could be right now, makes her decision.

She swings around to look at Minnie. "Minnie. Go around the back to Doc's," she commands breathlessly. "Wait there 'til we come get you. Stay there. _Don't leave_." Velma waits only to see the younger girl give a trembling nod before she turns back to Graziella, whose eyes are closed and lips are moving as she clutches the cross over her heart.

"Graz," she says. "Graz, we have to go."

Graziella opens her eyes. "Vel, if it's what—I can't—"

"Graz," Velma repeats, forcing her voice to stay gentle, slow, to mask her agony. All she can see are two pale blue eyes, a constellation of red, and a gun in the hands of a murderer. "We have to go."

Graziella is silent, then gives a shaky nod. "Okay."

Within seconds, a fast walk turns into a jog which turns into a run that covers the last street between them and the echo of the shot in minutes. And Velma, terrified, can't think anything else but _oh God please not him please please please I__'ll do anything_ in a tiny, wailing voice in her mind. There is a Shark out there tonight who intends to kill, and if that bullet has found a target in Ice she doesn't know what she will do.

But as they pass through the open gates of the playground and skid to a stop, all she can see is the girl in the red dress, helpless over Tony's dying form, trying to mend what can't be mended, trying to seal the life in his body with her love.

Maria, she thinks, remembering a conversation that seems years ago. Her name is Maria.

She can't look away. Velma has never seen anyone die before, has never seen anyone so helpless and wounded and broken before, let alone someone so young and vivid as Tony. He is covered in sweat and dirt and tears and his weak feeble hands are grasping for the girl he loves but it is the sheer utter hopelessness of his once-bright voice that betrays the mortality that has caught up with him at last.

"I—I didn't believe hard enough."

"_Loving_ is enough." Maria's voice is tender, insistent. She's not giving up, Velma realizes, she doesn't for one second accept that this could be happening. Maria still thinks she can save him. And Velma doesn't believe in miracles but she thinks she could, just this once, if it would help. Please, she thinks, seeing Maria hold the boy in her arms with all the strength in her soul, let it be true.

"Not here," Tony says, slowly shaking his head, and quiet as the words are, the strange and bitter sadness there makes Velma's heart ache. "They won't—let us be."

Maria brings her hand up to caress his face. "Then we'll get away!" she says, soft voice both pleading and resolute.

Tony is fighting for every breath, gasping for a few more precious moments, but still he hears her, and he answers. "Yeah—we can—"

"—yes—"

"—we will—"

"—_yes_—" And that sweet, pleading voice wavers as the girl in the red dress swallows a sob. "Somewhere so far they will _never_ find us. Only you and me, together, forever." She grips Tony's palm tighter, always tighter. "Hold my hand—it is there, do you see it? That place out there—somewhere, just for us."

Velma can't see Tony's face, but even so, she understands it before Maria does. It's no use. Chino's bullet has ripped its way through Tony's body and stolen the life from him. Even now, he is straining to take his last shuddering breaths of air as Maria presses him closer, trying against all certainty to hold him with her on this side of the night.

"You see," she says, "we are halfway there already—because someday—someday is _now_—"

But Maria stops, because Tony's hand has relaxed in hers and his eyes are closed and he can't hear her anymore.

Maria doesn't move, just gazes at the slack hand in hers. It seems to take her hours before she turns her eyes to Tony's and faces the undeniable truth written there. And then…

Velma has never seen a heart break before, but as she watches Maria's life shatter into a thousand fractured pieces, she knows that is what is happening now. The expression on that beautiful face is so tender, so naked, so full of agony and sorrow and loss that Velma can't bear to look at the private grief etched there. She loves him, Velma thinks, heart thudding painfully in her chest as she forces her gaze to the rain-soaked pavement, she _loved_ him, and this is what happened.

It's not until she hears slow footsteps and the Jets move into her vision that she looks up and sees Ice and every other gang member assembled there shifting forward, intent clear by the grim determination on their faces. Velma, heart already pounding, skitters back with Graziella, but—

"_Stay back._"

The red of Maria's dress glows even through the cluster of Jets between them, and as that slight figure gets to her feet and takes quick, measured steps forward, Velma sees no trace of the young girl in white from the dance anymore. She is gone, just as absent as Tony and Riff and Bernardo. Dead. Vanished, into the night.

Maria stands before her lover's murderer, holds her hand out. And Chino, boyish face uncertain and maybe even ashamed, places the barrel of the gun in her palm.

It's such a small thing, thinks Velma, almost amazed, to cause so much pain. So much hurt. She wants to run, fast and far, to get away from all of it, and Tony wasn't even hers, didn't even belong to her heart. Velma remembers Bernice's question and wonders the same thing now: how is Maria able to stand there, and not crumble and break under the weight of this staggering loss?

Maria, expression blank, turns the gun over in her hands and asks one simple question.

"How do you fire this gun, Chino?"

Velma frowns. Something about the way Maria asks the question sounds familiar, but she's not quite sure why.

Chino doesn't answer, but Maria's hands have already slid into place. "Just by pulling this little _trigger_?" As her voice rises, so, too, does her hand, and the boy in front of her scrambles back as the gun used to kill Tony is turned back on himself. "How many bullets are left, Chino?"

Velma's eyes widen as she understands. She recognizes that voice, she thinks, horrorstruck, because she has heard its flat numb exhaustion in Graziella's words tonight. It is the voice of someone who has seen her entire life swept away in one night, the voice of someone who wants the whole world to hurt just as much as she hurts. Someone, Velma thinks, the air catching in her throat, with nothing left to lose.

Maria wheels, points the gun on the tall, dark-skinned Shark Velma remembers as the lieutenant from the dance. Pepe. He, too, and every Puerto Rican around him retreats. "Enough for you?"

And then she swings around to Ice. "And _you_?" Velma barely has time for a silent gasp as he takes quick steps back before Maria goes on. "All of you!" she shouts in that terrible, ravaged voice, gesturing among the Jets with that sleek steel gun that promises no one will escape unscathed tonight. "You _all_ killed him—and my brother—and Riff. Not with bullets and guns," she says, voice tinged with scorn and so raw Velma wants to block her ears from the sound that is tearing into her soul. "With _hate_. Well," she goes on, anger and heartbreak driving her voice louder, "l can kill, too—because now _I_ have hate!"

And then she turns back, aims her gun at Ice. Velma realizes in an instant that this is not the idle threat of seconds before, that even if Ice is everything to her, Maria loses nothing if he falls now. And in that moment, every thought and emotion she's ever had, a thousand unintelligible feelings and phrases built up over seventeen years until this moment, runs through Velma's mind, disjointed and confused and incoherent and all adding up to one desperate word that burns with the clarity of a thousand suns in her heart: _please_.

Maria advances, gun pointed, but Ice stands his ground, doesn't move. No, of course he wouldn't, thinks Velma, heart beating wildly in her chest, he is not the kind to run and there's nowhere to go anyway, and oh, God, please, no, _not Ice_—

"How many can l kill, Chino?" Maria asks, anguished face marked by the glow of the red police lights. "How many—_and still have one bullet left for me_?"

Velma can't breathe. She can't move, because if she does, if she even takes one little step forward, it might happen. She might pull the trigger. There is no safety tonight. Please. All her being is concentrated in that desperate prayer as red light washes over Ice and she remembers the blood that has already been spilled this night. Please. Let him live.

And as Velma waits, dizzy from terror, she hears a dry sob. The silence is broken, the moment passes. Maria's face crumples as she stares at the gun in her hands with wide, uncomprehending eyes. And then she drops it—almost flings it away from her—and collapses to the concrete, racked with sobs and crushed by the full understanding of her loss.

Velma takes a deep, shuddering breath, released by the other girl's pain, before bringing her hand to her mouth and covering it to hide her relief and love. She has no right to intrude on this moment, no right to try and understand this sorrow. Instead she keeps her eyes fixed on Ice even as a police officer steps forward, concentrates on the blood still beating in his heart and the air still moving in his lungs. Every breath of his matches every one of hers; every second that passes proves he is alive. Safe. That is all that matters now.

But as Schrank passes Maria, the girl jerks up, scrambles over, and flings herself on Tony's body.

"Don't—you—_touch him_!"

And as Maria focuses her wild, determined gaze on the man with the badge, daring him to take one step closer to the boy she guards—the boy she loves—Schrank, the lines of his back weary, pauses. And incredibly, he retreats, takes several steps back. Even Schrank, it seems, has amends to make tonight.

Maria, the point won, glances at the Puerto Ricans. Her friends. Velma can see the question in her eyes. Please. For me.

But the Sharks avoid her gaze, look to the pavement. And Maria, the hope in her eyes wavering, turns to the Jets. This time, Velma can tell, there is one small difference. Please. If not for me—for your friend.

She doesn't know if they'll listen. Even if Tony loved Maria, she is still the sister of the boy who killed their captain, and only moments ago the Jets wanted their revenge. It all depends on the new captain, Velma supposes, which is not as reassuring as it should be. Velma never has trouble understanding Ice, but even she has no idea what he will do.

Please, she hopes, adding her silent support. For all of us.

It's the one person she never would have expected who takes that first step forward. It's Action, the boy who never saw the beauty in stillness, never saw the point in love, who crosses that vast small distance to Maria and waits, shoulders hunched, for the others to follow. Action, who stands ready to bear the man he once called a friend away.

If Action can do that, thinks Velma, stunned, as A-Rab and Tiger join him, then maybe…

In that silent moment, guarded by the three boys, Maria's last look, her final goodbye is her own. But in the quiet of the playground, her breathless whisper reaches them all.

"_Te adoro_, Anton."

The love in those three words pierces Velma's heart. It isn't fair, she thinks. She wants to cry, and scream, and hide from this heartbreaking reality. It just isn't fair.

And as Maria settles back, Action, A-Rab, and Tiger stoop to lift Tony's body from the ground. They are gang members, burly and used to depending on their muscles, but faced the the slack weight of a boy they once knew, their strength falters. Baby John, seeing Tony's body begin to fall, takes a step closer, ready to help—but it is Pepe and Indio who rush forward to give their support.

There is a uneasy pause as the five boys exchange wary glances. This is new and strange for all of them, and for a moment Velma wonders if it's even possible. If Jet and Shark can share this burden and move forward past this night, or if the wounds are too deep to ever be mended. She wonders.

And then slowly, carefully, they straighten. They work to balance the weight between them. They bear him away. Together, united now as they never could have been before. She wouldn't have believed it, thinks Velma, stunned, but Maria, by her love, has done what all the judges and psychiatrists and social workers of their world never could.

As the small procession moves out of the playground and into the street, Velma gazes at the tense line of Ice's back. He has not stirred since his brush with death. He is still staring at Maria, unmoving and silent. And Velma, though there is nothing more that she wants than to go to him, hesitates.

She needs him. She needs to feel his heart beating in his body, reassuring her that he is still alive and well. She needs to feel his arms around her telling her that everything is going to be okay—that _he_ will be okay. That all of this is a nightmare that will go away come morning. Something. Anything to drive away the dull ache in her chest. Anything to keep back the night.

But when Velma looks at him, she doesn't see the boy she loves standing there. All she sees is a Jet, face blank and far away where she can't reach him. And this is what frightens her more than all the blades and bullets in West Side.

Velma doesn't go to him. She can't. She is too afraid of what she might find. Instead, she passes him, follows the Jets and the Sharks out of the playground and past the twisted broken wires of the fence, and turns up the stairs into Doc's, where Minnie, her face white, is waiting.

"What happened?" she asks, rushing forward, her hand clutching at her heart. "Is Johnny okay?" She is too distraught to even blush about so direct a question.

Maria, Velma thinks. She can't get that face out of her mind. Maria looks about the same age as Minnie. And Velma, still trying to make sense of the past five minutes, nods. "It's Tony," she says dully. It's almost an afterthought, an asterisk to the memory of the tender sorrow and the raw pain in one girl's eyes. "He's—dead."

Minnie's eyes flood with tears even as Velma registers the faint, unconscious relief on her face. "Oh, Tony," she cries, "oh, _Tony_," and Velma puts her arms around the younger girl and holds her as Minnie weeps for Tony and Riff and Bernardo and for all the lost kids in West Side whose numbers were called at midnight in the summer of their lives.

Yet again, Velma is confronted with her utter helplessness in the face of this tragedy. It's not fair, she thinks, doing her best to comfort her friend, that someone so young and innocent as Minnie should have to understand what death really means when her friends, who are supposed to be older and wiser, can't make sense of it either.

"It'll be okay," she says softly, even though she has no idea whether this is true or not. "Minnie, I—I promise. It'll be okay."

Minnie just nods, hot tears soaking into her Velma's shoulder. She doesn't say anything, and Velma is relieved, because it means she doesn't have to lie again. Even Minnie, she supposes, understands that there is no way to make this all right, no way to fix this. No way to pick up and carry on like nothing has happened, because Tony and Riff and Bernardo are gone and in their wake they leave two shaken gangs and three heartbroken girls and mothers and maybe even fathers and friends and anyone who ever loved them at all. No, she thinks, no way at all.

When Minnie's tears have slowed, Velma steps back. "C'mon," she says, heart aching. She can't look at her because she doesn't want to know if the knowledge of Tony's death really has destroyed Minnie's faith in the world. Please, she thinks, let her be all right. "Let's go home."

.

Even if she weren't waiting for him, Velma wouldn't be able to sleep.

She is sitting on her bed with her knees pulled up to her chest when Ice climbs through her window for the second time that night. Velma watches him as he pulls off his jacket and tosses it on a chair. He looks the same. Maybe a little more worn-out. It's still almost too much to believe that after everything that has happened tonight, he is here with her now.

"I just dropped Graz off. Where'd ya go?" he asks, coming forward to sit next to her with a tired sigh.

Though her eyes widen at the mention of her best friend, Velma doesn't answer, and pulls away when he reaches for her. "What are ya goin' to do, Ice?" she asks quietly instead.

He sighs, and by the slump of his shoulders she knows this is the last thing he wants to talk about right now. But it can't wait. "Vee," he says, his voice low, "not this. Not now."

"Look, I don't ever say it," she presses on, "I keep quiet. I don't ask questions. I wait for the right time, the perfect time, to bring it up. But—" and Tony's still face flashes in her mind— "I've been thinkin', an' don't ya see, Ice? There ain't never gonna be a perfect time to say you can't keep goin' like this. An' if I keep waitin' an' waitin' for it—" She takes a deep breath, and this time it is Maria that she sees. "It'll be too late."

Ice is silent for a moment. When he does speak, it's as if he hasn't heard her. "Before—when we was all lookin' for Tony—I went by his place," he says, voice quiet. "To see if that's where he ended up."

Velma gazes at him, brow furrowed. Three boys are dead, she wants to cry out, _dead_, because they thought they were invincible and that's something you can't ignore or undo, don't you get it? She knows this isn't the best time, but there is always going to be something there, something between them and if she can't get it out now there may be no hope. Something has to change.

But right now it's too easy to return to old habits, to keep quiet, to listen to everything he has to say like every other gang member's girl. And Ice, staring at the opposite wall, goes on.

"I saw his ma. Just for a second, but she was pokin' her head in his room, seein' if he was home yet." He pauses. "I stayed with Tony for a couple months, 'fore I met you. I ever tell ya that?"

Velma shakes her head. And in spite of her intentions, she can't help but soften. She loves him so much that sometimes she forgets that when it comes to home and family, he isn't just like her. And now she has a bad feeling that she knows why he was there. "No, you never said."

"God, his ma—she was the nicest one I ever met," Ice sighs. "Ain't a lotta mothers who'd check on their kids like that. But she did." He is silent for a moment. "She was _happy_. An' now I don' know how or when she's gonna find out that Tony…that he…"

Velma strokes his hand. She hesitates, because she understands now that tonight has shaken him to the bone, but she has to say it, in the barest of whispers. "Ice, you…you know your ma, she don't deserve that, either."

Ice stares, unseeing, out the window. "This ain't about her, though."

"Ain't it?" she asks quietly. "What you do, what all the Jets do—don't it hurt us, too? You saw Graz. You saw—Maria," she says, saying the Puerto Rican girl's name aloud for the first time. "Riff an' Tony're dead. Bernardo, too," she adds, remembering that theirs is not the only side shattered tonight. "It's always worse bein' the one left behind. Not knowin' if you're comin' back."

Ice's expression doesn't change. "What, ya—want me to stop bein' a Jet?" he asks tiredly, rubbing his temples. "'Cause even for you—I ain't sure if I can do that. 'Specially not right now, with everythin'—" He stops, sighs, and for once Velma can only guess at what he is thinking.

She shakes her head. "I ain't sayin' that," she disagrees, her voice low and passionate, even though she thinks that maybe that solution would be the easiest and simplest, and even though his words hurt worse than she could have ever imagined. "I don't want ya to stop hangin' around 'em, Ice, they're your pals. Even I don't think they're so bad. I just—" She pauses, biting her lip. "I just don't want to say goodbye one night an' never see ya again. Like Graz," she finishes quietly. Across the street, a mourning Graziella is probably crying herself to sleep right now, and Velma can only imagine how this—her own worst fear—feels.

"Ya won't," he says, but Velma can tell that he isn't so sure himself, anymore, that what has happened to his best friends will not happen to him. "Ya won't," he repeats, and it is even less convincing the second time.

Velma reaches out and rests her hand on his. "Ice, you're the best man the Jets have," she whispers. "But you've never been much of a liar."

Ice stares at their hands, shakes his head. He doesn't say a word.

Velma swallows hard. "Please—just think about it. All this hurting an' killing—she's right, Ice," she says, remembering the girl in the blood-red dress. "Maria's right. It has to stop."

Ice closes his eyes. "Vee—"

But she can't hear him out, can't let him talk her out of the one truth she knows tonight and for always. "_I just don't want it to be you next time_."

Ice opens his eyes, gazes straight down at her. "Look, Vee. I love you," he says, and his voice is so tired. "Ain't that enough right now?"

Velma doesn't look away. Riff, Graziella, Bernardo, his girl, Tony, and Maria—torn apart in the space of one awful night. There was love there, too. "I don't know," she says. Her voice is hardly a whisper. "Is it? Was it, for them?"

"I don't know," he murmurs, pressing his face into her hair. "I don't even know what I'm sayin'. I just don't know anymore. God, Riff. Tony—" He takes a deep, shuddering breath. "I don't know."

Velma has to hide her shock. She knows how much that admission has to cost. For Ice to say he doesn't know, for him to lie here visibly heartbroken and grieving…he is scared, and hurt, and sad, she realizes now. And no wonder. He has just watched two of his best friends die in one earth-shattering night, and in the morning, it will only get worse before it gets better.

"Ice, wait—I'm sorry," she whispers, feeling ashamed. He is right. Now is not the time, and she, of all people, should have known better because she is the one who knows him as well as her own soul. Velma slides her arms around him and leans her head on his chest. She knows he understands exactly what she means. "God, Ice, I'm so sorry."

The beat of his heart sounds quiet next to her ear, still here tonight, against all odds, as he rests his arms around her. "I need you," he murmurs. "I know that much."

Velma pulls him closer as she thinks of what was, what is, and what could have been. What could still be. "I need you, too," she whispers. The thought of any other outcome than the one that has given him to her now is unbearable. "More than anything. So stay with me. Please."

He nods his assent, doesn't let go as they lie quiet, surrounded by silence and the weight of this night. And Velma wonders if they are strong enough to survive what is to come, the recoil and kick of the fired gun. Because they have to live with what has been done tonight, and come morning, nothing will be the same.

She loves him. And because of this, she can't keep going like this, wondering if the next time she sees him he will be dead. They need to talk, about where he goes now and what it could mean. About the Jets, and about themselves. But tonight, she lets it be and concentrates on the solid presence beside her, hardly able to believe he is here. Tonight, she understands that all she can do is be there while he mourns the loss of two best friends who were like brothers to him. And tonight, she keeps still and quiet and holds him fast with all the love in her heart because if she has learned anything tonight it is that no one can know if it will be the last time.


	16. this small space

Disclaimer: From here on out, the events belong to either me or **LCV Productions**, though of course everything still belongs to those amazing musical/movie people. :)

Note: So after a lot of thought, I have decided that this fic is, in fact, going to be expanded to 25 chapters, though it's actually not that much longer, considering only one chapter will be previously unplanned material, heh. For example, this chapter is only half as long as originally planned. But I figured overloading was a bad idea. Which explains the delay, and also, means that I'm hoping to update as soon as I get each chapter finished so that this fic will end around the date it was originally scheduled to. We'll see how that works out. -_- Also, this chapter references events in my fic, her fair judgement, so though you shouldn't need to read it, it might prove useful if you're confused. And finally, this chapter makes fta the longest _West Side Story_ fic existing, which means absolutely nothing except that more people need to write for this fandom, plz? :D And also that you should read **HedgehogQuill's** _Now It Begins_, the sister-fic that just passed the torch. Because it is so, so good. Not to mention awesomely awesome. :)

For: Lea Salonga, for her non-overenunciated London recording of _Miss Saigon_. I've apparently been on a Schönberg and Boublil inspiration kick. :)

—viennacantabile

* * *

fell the angels

sixteen : this small space

.

"Every shot that kills ricochets."

—Gilbert Parker, Romany of the Snows

.

Not Helen now, but Penelope,  
in whom a single noon was as long as ten years,  
because he had not come back, because they had gone  
from yesterday.

—Derek Walcott, _Omeros_

.

He is gone in the morning when she wakes up, and though this is not unusual, Velma knows that his absence says everything that he couldn't. I'm sorry. I love you. But I can't.

Resting her hand on his side of the bed, Velma moves into the hollow left by his body and draws the sheet close around her. She wants to imagine that it's warm—that he's just left—but she knows better. If not for that faint impression of his weight, she wouldn't have even known he was here. And in the end, she can't blame him, Velma supposes, because it's not his fault. Or theirs. Nothing is. All they were ever guilty of is the belief that what had always happened always would, and that they would be all right. She doesn't think it's a crime to trust in the way things are. In good intentions, and in love.

Velma lies in bed for the longest time, staring at the fading shadows across the ceiling and concentrating on just breathing in and out. She doesn't want to get up, doesn't want to face the day and what it will bring. She doesn't want to believe it could be real. But even though she tries not to think about it, she keeps seeing their faces. Riff. Bernardo. Tony. And Maria.

(In the back of her mind she wonders where their bodies are, exactly, and if she will ever see them again.)

It's not until the the phone rings, loud and abrupt in the silence, that Velma stirs and reaches for the receiver. It can't be anyone else but Graziella, and it isn't. When she answers, Riff's girl is sobbing and wailing from waking up and _remembering_ that this isn't some sick awful dream. Velma just listens, tries to help her best friend, hears her out and says everything that she is supposed to: that it isn't Graziella's fault and Riff really did love her and it will be okay someday, it really will. Which is harder than she'd think because Velma has heard her best friend screaming and ranting before but she has never heard Graziella like this.

Talk is all very well, Velma realizes after half an hour, but the only thing she can really do is go to her friend and be there with her. And it's only when she assures Graziella that she will be there in two minutes—when her feet hit the floor and her gaze meets the open empty window—that Velma finds the will to face it: They are dead, she thinks, the words heavy and solid in her mind. Just like that, three boys who were planning and hoping and loving and so alive yesterday aren't even here anymore. Gone. Wiped off the face of the earth. And they are never coming back.

Never is a long time, Velma imagines. Even longer than forever.

She is just edging out the front door when a voice stops her.

"Vilhelmina."

Velma winces. "Dad," she says, turning.

His face is solemn and grave. "We should talk about this." He doesn't have to say what. Again Velma remembers that her father is friends with a police officer, and again, there is nothing she wants to do less than talk to him about this.

"I have to go," she says, wishing she'd thought to climb out the window. She already knows what he is going to say, but it doesn't make the prospect of discussing the previous night any easier. "Graz called, an'—she needs me."

Dr. Andersen considers this, his face softening, and puts his hand on her shoulder. "Later, then," he says, voice soft but firm. "And if there's anything we can do, just tell us. I'm sure your mother will be sending some food over later."

Velma nods, unable to look her father in the eye. "I will. Thanks." And as she leaves her home, Velma takes a deep breath. Just another complication, another problem, she thinks, tracing the familiar path down the stairs and across the street to the Spanella apartment. Just another thing to worry about.

"Oh, Graz," she says quietly as she enters that shadowed room where her best friend lies curled up on her bed. She's said it before, but she can't say it enough. "Graz, I'm so sorry."

For once in her life, Riff's girl says nothing, just gazes at her with pleading, reddened eyes and holds out her arms. And Velma, wishing there was something, anything she could do, climbs under the covers with her best friend and puts her arms around her as Graziella cries helpless, anguished tears.

"I thought it wasn't real," the redhead sobs. "Vel, I actually—I _saw_ him in my dream, an' he was fine, an' when I woke up, I thought he was okay an' it was them dyin' that was the dream an' oh, God, Vel, _I thought it wasn't real_."

"Shh," whispers Velma, pulling her closer. She doesn't know what else to say, what else to do. "Shh."

They stay like this for what might be hours, Graziella just clinging for dear life as Velma tries to be strong for her. She doesn't speak, just holds her best friend as the tears pour down that pale face and Graziella mourns the death of the only boy she has ever loved. It's not much, and it might not even help, but it's all Velma knows to do.

"Lemme get you a glass-a water," she finally says when her best friend has been silent for a few minutes. She is still crying—Velma is afraid she'll never stop—but at least that heartrending hopeless whimper has died down.

Graziella just nods. And Velma, untangling herself slowly, gently from her friend, hurries to the kitchen where she reaches for a glass and gazes, unseeing, at the counter. How? she wonders. How did it come to this?

"Is she okay?"

Velma turns to see the owner of that small, scared voice. "Fred."

The red-haired boy shifts his bare feet, freckled face sober over his pajamas. Fred has always been enthusiastic and eager-to-please around his older sister's best friend, but there is no sign of his crush now. "Ma told me last night."

"I don't know," Velma tells him as she fills Graziella's glass. She stares at the stream of water, watching the liquid reach the top. She can't keep her hands from shaking. "As okay as she can be." She hesitates. "Y'know how she felt about Riff."

The boy's face twists, and Velma is reminded of Graziella's complaints about Fred hero-worshipping Riff from what seems a lifetime ago. "Yeah. I know." He sighs. "Whadda I—how can I—"

"Just be there for her," Velma says, reaching a hand forward and resting it on his shoulder. "She—she loves ya, y'know."

Fred glances at her hand and gives her a tentative smile. "Thanks, Velma," he says, a hint of the old giddiness coming back into his voice. "I knew ya'd know what to do."

Before she can say anything, Fred has already disappeared from the kitchen. Velma stares after him, wondering where everyone is getting this idea. The truth is that she has _no idea_ what it is they are supposed to do and where they are supposed to go from here. All she knows is that this cannot happen again, ever, because if it does it will break them all.

As she reenters Graziella's room, her best friend sits up and stares at her, eyes hopeless. Taking the glass, she holds it, but doesn't sip. "Tell me it ain't true," the redhead chokes out after a shuddering breath. Her voice, cracked and dry, is so unlike her usual high, laughing tone that Velma starts. "God, Vel, I'll do _anythin'_, just tell me it ain't true."

Velma looks away. She has never wanted to say anything more in her life. "Graz—"

Her best friend's voice is desperate. "Vel, please."

Velma sits down next to her friend and raises the glass in Graziella's hand to her lips. "C'mon," she says quietly. "Drink."

Graziella does as told, for once obedient as she gulps the water down. Then she stares at Velma, a portrait of a very young, very sad child. "Please."

Velma takes the glass back from her friend and sets it on the bedside table. "I wish I could," she whispers, wrapping her arms around Graziella again. She wonders if anything will ever be the same again. "Oh, God, Graz, I wish I could."

.

When she sees him later that afternoon, the scared lost boy from the night before is gone. In his place is Ice, cool, collected leader of the Jets, and Velma knows without words that no matter what has been said, his needing her—_loving_ her—will have to be enough for now.

.

Along with the mourning there's a certain amount of housekeeping to be done in the days after the rumble. Mundane, ordinary things only made remarkable because they wouldn't have been necessary without the gaping absence in their midst. Meetings. Treaties. Reassignments. And the big problem, the elephant in the room. Anita.

It doesn't take long before Anybodys tells Ice what happened after he left Doc's store that night. What happened, and what almost happened. It takes a lot of courage to go against nine boys and tell the truth, Velma supposes, and after that it's hard to regard the little tomboy with quite the same careless scorn anymore. Ice, too, rewards her with his respect: Velma never sees him make it official, never sees him hold a meeting and say it or even tell A-Rab and Snowboy to quit ragging on her, but what she does notice is that he stops shooing her away. He gives her assignments. He accepts, it seems, that Anybodys is theirs now.

Velma has to wonder if this tacit acknowledgement has anything to do with the way his gaze seems to slide over the rest of the Jets except Baby John. Even after the rumble—even after Tony—Velma has never seen Ice so upset in her life as when he comes back from dealing with his gang members. His _friends_. He doesn't talk about it, of course. Instead, he sinks down on her bed and stares at the ceiling and Velma is helpless to do anything but lie down next to him and just _be there_ for him while he tries to understand how his friends, the boys he has known for years, could have possibly done such a thing.

Velma doesn't understand it, either. She'd been there—she'd seen them in the garage, seen how they'd been bursting with hate and hurt and pain above all else, but she doesn't know how all of that turned the energetic, playful Jets they'd been before into one girl's personal nightmare. She doesn't have to have been there to know how horrible it had to have been—in fact, it's almost worse that she wasn't there, worse that all Velma has is her imagination and the look on Anybodys's face to see what it was, exactly, that they did.

In any case, Ice makes it very clear that whatever else happens with the Sharks and any other gang, the girls are to be left alone. And he tells her, later, that if the Sharks had done it to one of the Jet girls—to _her_—he would have killed them.

This makes Velma feel very strange. She supposes that now she is in the same position as Anita and Graziella had been in—the captain's girl, and leader by default of the others. That is how a rival gang would define her. That is how their own gang defines her. And it's strange, because all she ever wanted was Ice, and now she's got everything that comes with who he has become. Velma knows a lot of girls would call her lucky, but to her, this is just one more change out of the multitude that ripple outward from that one, pivotal night.

It's a wave that keeps going, sweeping over everything she's ever known and altering it just enough so that Velma never knows where she is. With the change in leadership, there is an empty lieutenant's spot open. And for a few days, Ice holds off. He thinks it through, and though he doesn't tell her, Velma understands that it's because he's doing his best with the gang Riff and Tony have left him. Trying to make sure he does the right thing, and asks the right person. Trying to make sure the same thing doesn't happen all over again.

When it comes time to choose, he doesn't pick Action. Ice is still too angry about what happened with Anita, and Velma can't blame him, not at all. Instead, Ice reaches for the Jet who, after Tony and Riff, has always been his best buddy. He picks Big Deal, who, Velma knows, is just about the least likely to fly off the handle like Action. Even if Big Deal was there, too, when it happened. Even if he didn't stop it. Even if he helped.

It's not something that's so easy to forget. Every other Jet besides Baby John and Anybodys has that shadow of menace over him now. Even big, clumsy, puppylike Mouthpiece, who has no idea what he's done; even the ones who do know, and are sorry. If a Jet could do that to a girl, is the unspoken fear, what else might he do? Suddenly, the girls who have known them for years don't know anything at all. _What else might he do?_

It's a question that each of the girls considers in the days after. Graziella wonders if Riff would have done it. Clarice swears never to forgive Big Deal. Bernice says nothing, just looks troubled. Pauline laughs it off, acts like she doesn't care through the uncertainty in her eyes. Minnie—well, even Minnie knows that the Jets did something terrible that night, and that none of them can forget it.

And Velma, heart beating always a bit faster these days, is relieved—so relieved—that Ice wasn't there. That he didn't do anything. That he is not to blame. She is almost able to ignore her own question: and if he had been? Would he have stopped them?

"What would you have done?" she whispers at night when he is asleep for a few precious hours before the dawn. "Ice. Would you have stopped it?"

Velma doesn't know if he ever hears her, but he never answers, just sleeps on for as long as he can before he wakes, when instinct tells him is time to leave. In her heart she knows the answer is yes, but so much is different now that her mind tells her she can't be sure. That she can't know. That there is no such thing as certainty these days. Not even when it comes to him. Not even when it comes to love.

.

When it comes time to be questioned, her answer is brief.

"I don't know."

Lieutenant Schrank pauses, sharp eyes narrowed and skeptical. "You don't know."

"Yes," says Velma, putting on her best 'I'm not afraid of you' stare. Ice has instructed all of them on how to respond, and for most of them it's not too hard. They've had their roles for years; all they have to do is bring them out to play. Innocent Minnie doesn't know anything, of course, which has the added benefit of being true. Pauline and Bernice are the boy-crazy airheads. Clarice is just interested in what she can get out of this. Velma is the stuck-up East Side snob who has no idea how she got here. And Graziella—well, Graziella is who she is: the heartbroken gang leader's girlfriend who can't stop sobbing. Even Schrank, they figure, can't be immune to that. "They're a street gang. I don't keep track of what they're up to."

Schrank gazes at her, eyebrows drawn together. "C'mon, you're the new leader's girl. Something tells me you know what he's gonna do to get back at the Sharks. Tell ya what," he says, trying a smile that doesn't reach his eyes, "I won't even tell him ya told me."

Velma shrugs. This is her part, the one she's had available her whole life, and she knows how to play it. "His girl? Yes, for now. And let me tell you," she says, crossing her legs and giving him an unimpressed stare, "I don't know how much longer _that's_ going to last."

Schrank considers this, and scribbles something down on his pad. "Uh-huh."

Ten minutes later, when she meets Ice in the alley behind the stationhouse, she holds his hand and looks up at him. "I'd never give up on ya," she tells him, voice low and intense, as if somehow he knows the lies she has told in there. "Never. You know that, right?"

Ice nods, pale eyes steady and somehow sad. "Yeah," he murmurs, pulling her close. "I do."

.

"Are you sure?" Velma asks, twisting the phone cord around her fingers. "He's said he's sorry so many times, an'—"

"I'm sure, Vel," says Clarice. "I can't let it go. Not this."

Velma hesitates. She has just returned from the Spanella apartment and Graziella's tears for Riff still linger with her. "Even if you love him?"

"I can't," her friend says, voice insistent. "I can't just forgive him. Would you, if it was Ice?"

"I don't know," Velma admits. Which is the truth. But after what has happened it seems to her that if there is love, then everything else doesn't quite matter so much. Of course, she thinks with a sigh, she is not the one whose boyfriend tried to rape a girl. She can't blame her friend at all for hating him.

"Anyway, good riddance to bad rubbish," Clarice says firmly, then lowers her voice. "How's Graz?"

Velma bites her lip. "Still crying."

"Still?" asks Clarice, sympathy evident from her voice.

"Still," she confirms, and sighs. "I know I would. Wouldn't you?"

Clarice hesitates, and Velma remembers, too late, what they have just been talking about. But then Clarice, too, sighs, and Velma can tell that for all her brave talk it is not so easy to just forget about the boy she loves. "Yeah," she murmurs. "I would."

.

After five days of existing in this new unfathomable reality, Velma wakes one morning to hear a small, tentative tap at her door.

"Velma?" comes a quiet voice from her bedroom door.

She checks to make sure her slip is on straight and Ice is gone—he is, of course he is—before getting up to open the door. Velma manages a tired smile at her youngest brother. "Chris."

The tow-headed boy looks her straight in the eye. "Are you okay?"

Velma rubs her arm, self-conscious and reminded of another little brother—Christoffer's best friend—in another apartment, not even a week ago. "'Course. Why wouldn't I be?"

Christoffer's solemn expression doesn't change. "_Mamma_ and Dad are worried about you because you don't want to talk to them. I heard them talking last night."

Velma bites her lip. She wants to snap at him, tell him it's none of his business and maybe then he'll go away and leave her alone and not look at her with that too-innocent gaze. But instead she swallows hard. "Chris…"

"What happened?" he asks, small face anxious. "How did it—you'll be okay, right?"

"It ain't me you should be worried about," Velma says, glancing back at the open window, but Chris shakes his head.

"I know it wasn't your boyfriend who died," he says. "But _you're_ my sister."

A surprised Velma takes a deep breath and stares at him, her eyes filling. It's like he knows that all she wants to do is talk to someone, anyone who isn't connected by blood or friendship to the broken hearts involved. Someone who loves her, and someone who won't say that she should leave. "I don't know," she whispers, and this time her answer is true. "Everything went wrong."

"I'm sorry," he says, stepping forward to wrap his arms around her. He has gotten taller, she notices, surprised. Just as tall as her now. Maybe even a little taller. "I wish everything could be all right again."

Velma returns the embrace, thoughts whirling in her mind, unable to settle. "I know," she says quietly. "Me, too."

.

"Vel," says Clarice over the phone two days later. Her voice is hesitant, unsure. "I an' Frankie—we made up."

Velma's eyes widen. "Ya did? When?"

"Last night," Clarice admits, sounding a little sheepish. "I an' Bernice was talkin' about a lotta stuff, an' I figured out that even though I don't love what he did, I love _him_. An' he's sorry, he really is." She pauses, and Velma can hear the worry in her next words. "Only I think about how I'd feel if it'd been me, an' I just don't know, Vel. D'ya think I'm terrible? For takin' him back so soon?"

"What? No, a-course not," Velma says, surprised. "I mean, I know what ya mean about what happened. He made a mistake. They all did." She bites her lip, wondering again how they could have done it. "But…the thing is—he's still Big Deal. He loves ya. An you love him. An' I think right now that ain't something you can throw away." Velma exhales. "It don't make it right, but it don't make it wrong, neither."

Clarice sighs. "Thanks, Vel. I woulda called Minnie or Graz, but I don't want Minnie thinkin' about what the boys did, an' Graz, well—you know."

Velma nods, then remembers Clarice can't see her. "Yeah," she murmurs. "I know."

"D'ya think things'll ever go back to normal, Vel?" asks Clarice, her voice wistful. "Like they were before?"

Velma takes a deep breath. "I don't know," she says, leaning back against her pillows. "But I hope so."

.

Though they meet less and less as the days pass, it is impossible not to see that Ice is changing. Every time they are together she can almost feel the crushing weight on his shoulders, the pressure building inside him. For the most part, he waves her off when she mentions it, but one night, Ice trudges in through her window and collapses onto her bed. Velma sits straight up, alarmed until he sighs.

"God," he says, breathing deeply, face half-buried in his hand. "I don't wanna do this."

Velma, biting down on her lip so hard she feels the mark hours later, is not exactly sure what to say. How to help. It's a familiar feeling, these days, and she still hasn't figured out how to make it go away. So she does what she can for him, wraps her arms around his waist and rests her cheek against the steady heat of his shoulder. "I'm here," she says quietly.

He leans into her body, doesn't look at her, and Velma feels the taut muscles under his skin begin to loosen, just a bit. "I know."

He kisses her, then, and as he breathes faster, tries to lose himself in her, she hears his low voice. "That's the hard part."

But when she asks him what he means, he doesn't answer.

.

It's not til three weeks later that she starts to think that things will be okay again.

Big Deal has just tossed off some cheesy line to Clarice, and as usual, her friend just about swoons. Velma can't help smiling. But when she looks at Ice, her eyes widen. The grin she hasn't seen since the day of the rumble is back on his face—smaller, softer, but there, all the same. And he is laughing—actually laughing.

When he catches her gaze, his expression flickers and he looks almost ashamed. As if he's not sure it's all right to be happy again. But when she doesn't look away, a hesitant smile comes back.

"C'mon," he says, catching her hand in his. "Let's get outta here."

Velma follows him out of Doc's and into the night, her heart pounding, and isn't disappointed when he pushes her up against the wall and kisses her, long and slow. And when they go back through the alleys to her apartment, it's playful and fun and everything that has been lost for so long. When it's just them, safe in her room—they can forget about everything else and just love each other the way they always have.

In the morning she wakes to the sound of the phone, and when she answers, it's with a smile on her lips. He is still there, still tangled up in the sheets next to her for the first morning since before. Last night, she remembers, sliding her hand under the sheet and around Ice's body, was just like old times. Last night, she remembers, he was happy.

But when she hangs up the phone, she bites her lip and glances at Ice. "Graz wants to meet me at The Coffee Pot."

Ice reaches over, glides his hand along her hip. "Right now?"

Velma shivers, but she has heard that tone in Graziella's voice and this is not something that can wait. "Now. Just me," she adds, removing his hand with a regretful yawn.

Ice sighs, too, and shrugs. Leaning forward, he kisses her. "I'll walk ya over."

Velma smiles. Here, at last, she thinks, he is—the boy she loves, happy again. "Sure."

When they get to The Coffee Pot, Ice reaches down and touches his lips to her forehead. "I'll be at Doc's. See ya later."

And Velma feels that rush of love for him that's never left her and never will. "See ya."

Inside, Graziella is tucked away inside a booth, stirring her coffee and staring out the window. And as Velma crosses the distance between her and her best friend, she sees the shadows under the redhead's brown eyes and wonders as they greet each other. Graziella looks so tired. So worn. Please, she thinks, taking her cup of coffee and the pitcher of cream. Let everything be all right.

"So what's up?" she asks, beginning to pour.

Graziella doesn't look up. "I slept with Tiger."

Velma feels the bottom drop out of her stomach. "What?"

"I was drunk," Graziella shrugs. "Watch your coffee."

Just in time, Velma moves the pitcher of cream upright, away from her cup, and back onto the table, her hand shaking. "Well, yeah, you'd have to be, wouldn't ya," she says, unable to believe this, "but—_Tiger_?" Yes, he's always had a crush on her, Velma thinks, dazed, since kindergarten, the way she tells it, but Graziella has never, ever given him the time of day. And Riff, she thinks, unable to understand. What about Riff?

"He was there," Graziella says, voice flat. "Nowadays, that's all a girl's got."

Yes, Graziella is going through a lot right now, and yes, she's not exactly herself after a drink or five, but Velma, inhaling, doesn't see how this makes sense. "But Graz—"

"Stop lookin' at me like that," Graziella interrupts. "Not all of us have the luxury of fucking the guy they lost their virginity to, y'know."

That one hits her right in the heart.

"That's not what I—"

"I just don't give a damn anymore, Velma," says Graziella. There again is that beaten, lifeless voice. "Don't ya understand? I can't."

Velma tries. She tries to understand how broken and lost her best friend must be, to try and comfort herself with Tiger, of all people, how maybe the wrong person loving you is better than no one at all. She tries. But she can't. "No, Graz," she says, heart aching. "I don't."

Graziella just stares at her. And Velma realizes that no matter what she has said, her best friend never expected her to understand, never even thought she could. And what hurts even more than this is that she was right.

They make small talk for five uneasy minutes before Graziella excuses herself for the restroom, but the damage has been done. There is a distance between them that she has only seen once before, on that night after two deaths and before the third. _You don't understand. You don't want to. Don't._

That might be true, Velma thinks, wrapping her arms around herself, but it doesn't mean she doesn't want to help Graziella, all the same. She only wishes her best friend could see that.

Graziella's coffee has been sitting alone on the table for ten minutes when Velma, body heavy as lead, follows her path to the restroom in the back. There is only one door, and Velma waits outside, afraid of what she wants desperately not to be happening right now.

There is a choking, retching sound, almost a sob, and two minutes later comes the sound of water flushing and running. In another moment, Graziella comes out, pale and shining with perspiration. When she sees her best friend, she stops short.

Velma doesn't know what else to say. "It won't help, Graz."

Graziella seems about to deny it, but then she shakes her head. "That's what you think," she says bitterly. "Shows how much you know."

"Well, then, _tell me_," says Velma. All the fear and worry and anguish she has felt for her best friend in the past few weeks lie in those two words. "I know ya used to do it when you were younger—the twins told me—but how can throwin' up everythin' you eat _help_?"

"I want him out of me," Graziella says, wiping her mouth in one precise, deliberate motion. She casts defiant brown eyes at Velma. "You'd do the same thing."

And Velma stares at her and remembers another conversation. _If it was what she wanted_. But can Graziella, in her current state, know what she really wants? And even if she does, doesn't it fall to Velma, her best friend, to stop Graziella from hurting herself?

What is she supposed to do? she wonders, feeling more helpless than ever. What is she supposed to do now that nothing is the same anymore?

Velma sighs. "Come on, Graz," she murmurs, putting her arm around the redhead. There is nothing else _to_ do. Not for her, anyway. "Let's go."

.

Velma doesn't see Ice laugh again for a very long time, and as time passes she comes to understand that that was the exception, not the norm.

During the daytime he is busy keeping the Jets in line. Holding meetings. Doing everything he can to distract himself from the reality that it is all on him now. And Velma feels like she only sees him—the real him, not Ice, captain of the Jets—in the evenings when he passes through her window and into her room, beaten into letting his guard down. And in the nighttime, she sees what no one else does.

He is scared.

The hopelessness in his exhaustion frightens her. It's too close to what she remembers of that night. And because of this she keeps silent, doesn't bring up that conversation before dawn. She hasn't forgotten her own fear that the unthinkable will happen. It's just that Velma is afraid that if she mentions it, if she brings it up—she will make it real.

"I keep thinking what if," he whispers one night, staring out the window. "Everything I coulda done to stop it. And if I had, maybe they'd still be here."

Velma climbs into his lap and gazes down at him. For once he is talking, telling her how he feels, but he has to understand that this is not right. "Listen to me." Her voice is soft, serious. "Listen. You have to stop thinking it was your fault. And you have to stop thinking you can fix everything, all by yourself. You can't."

Ice just shakes his head, doesn't look at her. "I shoulda done somethin'."

Velma feels the sadness in him and wishes, not for the first time and certainly not for the last, that they could go back to before. "I love you," she murmurs, turning his chin so he has to face her. "An' you love me. That's enough, remember?"

Ice leans forward and touches his lips to the bare skin of her shoulder. He doesn't say a word.

.

Velma is sitting on a swing in the playground waiting when Graziella walks up, hands jammed into the pockets of her skirt.

"You're late," says Velma with a smile. "Almost gave up on ya, Graz."

But Graziella doesn't smile. "I—need to talk to ya," she fumbles. "It's important."

Velma stands up, takes a step forward, heart sinking. "What—"

"Vel," Graziella says, and her voice shakes just a little bit. "I _am_ late."

There is no question what kind of late it is, and Velma, hand reaching for her mouth, feels sick to her stomach. But still, she hopes she is wrong. "For—"

"Oh, you know," Graz snaps, high voice turned old and hateful. "Don't be stupid. What else could it be?"

Velma just stares at her, helpless as Graziella's pale face wavers, cracks under the weight pressing down on her. Nothing is fair in this life but Graziella doesn't deserve this. Not after everything that's already happened.

"Oh, Graz," she murmurs, reaching forward to pull her best friend close. "Oh, Graz." There is nothing else she can say.

And Graziella, stiff and rigid in her arms, rests her chin on Velma's shoulder and lets out a choking laugh. "I tried to get rid-a it," she says, voice tight. "I tried. Found a real doctor to do it quick an' quiet for a lotta money, an' everythin'. But I couldn't. How stupid is that?"

"It ain't stupid," Velma says softly as she strokes her best friend's bright flaming hair, wishing there was something, anything, she could do. "Not stupid at all."

"It's Riff's," Graziella says, voice laced with bitterness. "I'm seein' Tiger later, an' I ain't lookin' to make him wise to it, but I thought you should know."

Velma inhales sharply. It's not even two weeks since Graziella's slip with Tiger, and just over a month since Riff. "Are ya sure? The timin'—"

"It's Riff's," Graziella repeats, taking a step back. "I know it is."

Velma watches her best friend for a moment, then nods.

"God," Graziella whispers, covering her mouth with her hand. "I'm dumb. So dumb. Oh, _Riff_." And Graziella hunches over, shoulders shaking, and begins to cry. "_Riff_."

Velma holds her friend tighter and wishes, for the thousandth time, that things were different. "I'll be with ya the whole way," she murmurs. "The whole time. You won't be alone."

"Promise?" whispers Graziella, taking gulping, sobbing breaths because there is not enough air left in this world for her. "Oh, Vel—"

Velma nods, heart aching. The weeks since the Jets lost what innocence they had left have been long and difficult for Graziella, more than any of them, and this turn they never could have seen coming will be harder still. And if Velma can help, if she can do anything at all—and even if she can't—she'll be here. "I promise," she whispers, meaning every word. "You won't be alone."


	17. the drowned and the saved

Disclaimer: If you recognize it, it's not mine. If you don't, it's mine. Ex: the Musclers are Irving Shulman's, but the individual names are mine. :)

Note: Semi-revised 3.05.11. Two things—if you haven't read catch the moon, it might be helpful. And as always, feel free to let me know if you have any questions, comments, or complaints. :)

For: **HedgehogQuill**, who is wrapping up her first week of college today (!), and **Megfly**, who sent me pretty much the greatest salutatory PM ever the other day. Thank you so much for being the best readers and reviewers ever, and for being so patient. :)

—viennacantabile

* * *

fell the angels

seventeen : the drowned and the saved

.

O God! what a thing it is to be a ghost, cowering and shivering in an altered world, a prey to apprehension and despair!

—Ambrose Bierce, "The Moonlit Road"

.

It's so dark.

Ice, sitting on the roof, closes his eyes and takes a long, slow breath. It's the only thing he can do right now; the only thing that will keep him sane as he tries to forget about the empty spaces where his best friends used to be.

Where are they now? he wonders. Where do they disappear to? What happens to them after they leave, and to the people they loved? Hours later, he can still see them endlessly falling, toppling over, marionettes whose strings were cut so silently no one even knew it was happening until it was over. Three lives stolen in the space of a heartbeat, with no time to fight or scream or say goodbye. Gone, without even a warning.

Except Tony, he remembers, covering his face with his hand. His fingertips are numb. Riff had been bad enough, but _Tony_…Ice remembers his friend sinking to the ground and shudders. Tony had known exactly what was happening, had struggled with everything he'd had in him, and still it wasn't enough. Still he'd slipped away, had gone with the night and left them all behind with no direction and no idea of where to go from here.

Where? Ice thinks again. He can't believe in their absence, can't accept that there is nothing left of them. Where do they go?

He can't help hoping with every cell in his body that if he waits long enough the sun will come up as it always does and everything will be okay. That this whole night will turn out to have been just a dream and that Riff and Tony—and even Bernardo—will meet him in the morning and they will laugh. Us, dead? Never thought you'd fall for such a dumb trick, Ice-man. You're getting too easy.

(Ice doesn't think he's ever heard the Shark leader laugh like he means it but even that is easier to imagine than this horrible truth.)

And Vee, he thinks. With Riff and Tony back, Velma will have no need to ask questions he can't answer and look at him with those eyes of hers that see everything he tries to hide. With Riff and Tony here, they can continue on, as they always have. Safe. Someone else can call the shots, and someone else can give the orders. Someone else who has the slightest idea of what he is doing. Someone—anyone—who is not Ice.

He can't lead, he thinks, gazing out into the darkness, every muscle tensed and locked into place. He can't.

Time passes, and still he waits for the light. It's dumb as anything and no one else knows, but over the years, this moment—the space between night and day—has become as familiar as his own mind, a place to call home. Here he has waited, and here he has met the dawn which has never failed him before. No matter what, he thinks, straining his eyes for relief from the endless void, the sun always comes up in the end.

But Ice, stretching his arm out, stares in vain. There is no sign of light, no hint of daybreak. In this inky blackness he can't even see the shape of his hand, let alone that place where his friends have gone. Beyond time. Beyond life.

Riff, he tries to say aloud. Tony. But there is no sound, no breath left in him. No way to know he isn't just another ghost. Like—them.

Vee.

(Even if he could get it out, there is no one in this darkness to hear, anyway.)

"Ice."

He opens his eyes so suddenly he almost doesn't think it's real.

"Ice," persists the voice. "Ice, wake up."

There across the room is the faint dimness of light from the window. He can feel the the barest hint of sensation from the cool soft sheet over his skin. And as his gaze runs over the ceiling, the walls, the bed, Ice takes a deep breath, the air reaching all the way down into his lungs.

"Vee?"

The word is short, just a small sigh into the night, but it's there. It's proof that he is awake, that weeks separate them from that starless night, and that the sun rises—as it did then, and as it does now. That he is not alone.

Velma rests her hand on his bare chest, and Ice registers her touch, feather-light and gentle. "You okay?"

"Yeah," he says, sitting up. Ice shakes his head. The awareness of sight still feels so strange to him after the abyss he has just left that though he knows where he is now and that morning is on its way, after all, it's still difficult to get his bearings. Vertigo. He's all too used to that feeling these days. "Fine."

"I don't know why I woke up," she says, blue eyes watching him. "But I thought—I felt—" She pauses. "You had this look on your face. I never see you sleepin' anymore, you know that?"

Ice shakes his head. "No," he says, although of course he does. He doesn't remember the last time she woke up before he left. "What'd I look like?"

Velma, head propped up on her hand, doesn't say anything for a long moment. And Ice, gazing down at her, shifts his weight. She doesn't know—she can't know—the things inside of him. The dreams that won't go away. Everything that is too terrible to bring into the light. He won't let her.

Finally she sits up and presses her lips to his shoulder. "Like you were real far away," she whispers, sliding her arms around him. "Like you were someplace I couldn't reach you."

The air is still again in Ice's body. It's been weeks and still he doesn't know what to tell her. He wonders now if he ever has.

He tries to shrug it off, lets out a small chuckle. "I'm right here. Always have been."

She doesn't laugh. "Me, too."

Ice stares at the bed. The day is advancing and the room is full of shadows cast by pale light. But all he sees right now are the walls pressing in on him and the hint of dawn waiting just beyond that open window.

"It's morning," he says. "I better go."

There is no change in the weight around his waist, but Ice can feel the effect his words have on her just the same.

"Already?"

"It's morning," he says again. "Or almost. An' your dad's been workin' the early shift this week."

Velma sighs, and releases him. "When'll I see ya?" she asks, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.

"Later," he says, putting his feet to the floor and reaching for his clothes. The sky is getting brighter now and the pull, the need to leave, is getting stronger. He doesn't have much time, not if he wants to catch that first glimpse of light. "Doc's, probably."

"Okay," she says, her voice soft in the stillness of her room. "See ya later."

Pulling his shirt on, Ice nods. "See ya."

Reaching forward, he presses his lips to her forehead, and climbs out the window and onto the steps of the fire escape. He can just see the sky changing color to the barest hint of red-gold. Daylight is coming, and as Ice breathes in, he can feel the morning air flooding his body. He is alive, he thinks, and for now, at least, he is not alone.

.

"Aww, c'mon, Ice," says Action, pounding his fist into his palm that afternoon at Doc's. "I'm sick-a stayin' inside; we got nothin' to do here."

Ice, sitting at his usual table behind the pinball machine, trades a glance with Big Deal. Little by little Action has been regaining the reckless impatience of his old self, and Ice has a feeling he'll have to deal with the Jet sooner or later. But he should have expected it—it's been weeks, he thinks with a sigh, and the others aren't so content themselves.

"Krupke an' those stooges've been gettin' real comfortable on their asses without us stirrin' up trouble," complains A-Rab, fidgeting at the pinball machine. "At least we could scout out new territory. Roll a coupla drunks, even."

"Yeah, I could use a watch," says Tiger from the counter, running his comb through his hair. "A real snazzy one. Know any drunks who got those?"

"Not any that'd be dumb enough to keep 'em where _you_ could find 'em, stupid," snaps Anybodys, twisting around from her perch by Ice's table. She doesn't say it, but everyone knows what she really means. No watch Tiger will ever be able to nab is going to get him anywhere with Graziella. "God."

"It ain't nice to say that too much, Anybodys," says Mouthpiece from next to Tiger, looking very serious. "'Least, that's what my ma says."

A-Rab cackles, and Anybodys's face turns red. "I couldn't give two sh—"

"Hey, look!" says Baby John from the nearest table, waving his comic in the air. Ice sighs in relief at the interruption. "They got an address where you can write to Captain Marvel! An' it says right here that they're gonna print the best ones!"

Gee-Tar leans forward and peers at the faded type. "Huh. Just like that?"

"Yeah!" says Baby John, bouncing in his seat. "I gotta get started right away!"

"Ain't that from a month ago?" Big Deal asks, popping his gum. He reaches for the comic and squints. "June 16th, 1957. Yeah. 'Less you got a time machine or somethin', you're a little late, Baby John."

"So what else is new?" Anybodys grumbles as the boy deflates, but the rest of her griping is lost on Ice as his mind registers the date. June 16th, 1957. One month ago. He has been aware of time passing, but still he is surprised and somehow ashamed. It's the strangest thing, he thinks. Four weeks on, and everything is exactly the same. Action moaning for action. Baby John and Captain Marvel. Tiger and Mouthpiece, making them all look a little smarter. And Ice, watching it all from the corner.

But even though the picture in Doc's is familiar, so many details are off in the smallest, subtlest way. The girls, off who knows where now that Graziella has no reason or desire to be here. Anybodys, presence unquestioned now and proud of it. And the Jets, looking at him. It all adds up to that horrible hole in their midst, that absence Ice can't ever forget: Riff. Tony.

"Ice?"

He glances up at the man standing in front of his table, face falling into its usual blank expression. "Yeah, Doc?"

The lines in the old man's face have gotten deeper, his faded eyes sadder in the month since he began working alone again. Here, at least, thinks Ice, is one person who hasn't forgotten what day it is, and what they've lost. Though what this means he isn't sure.

"I been thinkin'," says Doc, a ghost of a smile on his face. "I could use a little help around here. Mind lendin' me Baby John?" Face flat again, he glances at the boy, who is engrossed in his comic again. "You an' I both know he's a little young for all of this."

"Sorry, Doc," says Ice, trying for a smile in return but ending up with a grimace. "We need him."

"Yeah? For what?" Action asks in disgust, flinging a dart into the board. "It ain't like we're _doin'_ nothin'. I might as well sign up with them army schmucks; at least then I'd get to _hit_ someone."

Doc shakes his head. "You wouldn't last two seconds in the army," he says, that flicker of a smile passing across his face again. "Too many orders, not enough patience for kids like you."

As Action scowls, Joyboy gets up and joins him at the dartboard. Firing a dart into its center, he removes the lollipop from his mouth. "Speakin'-a hittin' someone—"

"We heard there's been a coupla them Musclers down by the river," fills in Snowboy. He chuckles. "Maybe they was fishin', huh?"

"Yeah, fishin' for _our territory_," snaps Action. He yanks his dart from the board and wheels around to face his leader. "Ice, when're ya gonna let us beat 'em into the ground, huh?"

There is a chorus of agreement, and Ice sighs. He knows as well as they do that there have only been more sightings of the Harlem gang in the month since that night. He doesn't blame them—it makes sense. Any gang that has just lost its present and former captain is going to be weak. Easy pickings. It's what he'd do, if it were him. And they'd already been nosing around in the weeks before the rumble. It's not too hard to see what their next move is going to be.

But Ice shakes his head. "Not yet," he says, reaching for the excuse he's been giving them for the past few weeks. "The cops're all over our block now. We do anythin', they ship us off to some do-gooder school or even juvie." He glances around. "We gotta make like we've gone straight. Seen the error of our ways, an' alla that. Remember?"

"Yeah, yeah," grumbles Action. "We heard ya the first million times. Act like we don't gotta care in the world. Make like we're a buncha cute little kids, an' all that. You don't gotta tell us no more, okay? Play it—"

"_Cool_. Yeah, an' I mean it," Ice snaps, a hard edge to his voice. He will say it as many times as it takes for them to finally get it. "It's us against everyone else now, an' like it or not, it's us I'm lookin' after, buddy-boy. So we gotta wait for _them_ to start it." He glances around at the rest of the Jets. "Then? We string 'em up an' run 'em out, right under the cops' big noses."

"Sounds good to me," says Big Deal, giving his captain a cautious look. Ice has a feeling his lieutenant might have his suspicions about why they're really not challenging the Musclers, but he knows Big Deal isn't the type to raise a stink about it. A good quality in a lieutenant, Ice thinks, and probably even in a friend.

Action just growls and hurls another dart into the board, and Ice knows he isn't convinced. But that doesn't matter, he has decided. Nothing they think does, as long as they do what he says and keep their heads down and in one piece.

It isn't til Ice turns around that he catches Doc's gaze and blinks, unsettled. The old man is staring at him, tired eyes troubled, and if Ice had thought Big Deal suspected what he was up to, he is even more sure that Doc knows the real reason Ice is keeping them shut up in their headquarters.

It never goes away, he thinks, staring at the pile of cards on the table. Riff had stashed them behind the counter before the rumble, and though Ice had retrieved them in the days after, he'd never shuffled, never played another game. If he cares to look, Riff's last hand, Riff's last card is still on top. But he doesn't. Ice has memorized every line and curve of that particular ace of spades by now and there is no point in it anymore. It never tells him anything different.

"Don't worry, Daddy-O. He'll get over it," Big Deal says in a low voice. He snorts. "An' when ya hear about the Muscler with the broken jaw screamin' about some two-foot munchkin who jumped him, you'll know how."

Ice cracks a smile, but doesn't say anything. The truth that Doc knows, the truth he can't escape, is that hours after Ice became captain, he'd already failed. And now, four weeks after the rumble that killed his two best friends, the only thing Ice cares about anymore is that the ten other Jets remaining stay alive, for themselves and their girls and whatever family they have. Even for him.

It's not such a terrible wish, he thinks, his gaze running over his friends. And he could do it, if not for problems like the Musclers. He is the captain, after all, and they might be restless but none of the Jets is about to go against him.

But deep down inside he knows that the world which has retreated since that night will not leave them alone in this uneasy calm. Something is coming, and though he doesn't know what it is or when it will be, Ice is pretty sure he is not going to like it.

.

When he says it, four days later, she looks startled.

"What?"

"Today," Ice says, reaching for her hand. "We met a year ago today."

Velma shakes her head slowly. "We did. Didn't we," she says, sounding dazed. She stares at him, blue eyes surprised. "It feels like yesterday. Yesterday, an' forever ago, at the same time."

"Yeah," he says, watching her. She looks just the same. Maybe a little sadder. But then, he probably does, too. "I know what ya mean."

She glances at him, a rueful expression on her face. "Funny, ain't it, how the time goes."

"I guess so," Ice shrugs, although very little is funny to him nowadays. "Anyway…look, I know it ain't much, but I thought we could do it all over again," he says. "Catch a movie, take a walk." He smiles a little. "I could maybe even leave, after, if ya wanted."

A smile flashes across Velma's face before she tucks her hair behind an ear. "I thought ya wouldn't wanna do anythin'. I mean—"

She falls silent, and Ice nods. He does know exactly what she means. After all, he remembers, too, who it was who brought them together. "No," he says, though his chest aches. "This is about us. Not that. I know it's s'posed to be a big deal an' all—Clarice told me," he goes on, feeling a little self-conscious. "I'da put somethin' together, but…I couldn't think-a nothin' good enough."

Velma doesn't say anything, and when Ice looks at her the sadness on her face disappears so quickly he's not even sure it was there. "I don't care about that stuff," she says, wrapping her arms around him and resting her head against his chest. "Just you."

"It's just—you're the best thing that ever happened to me," he says, gazing down at her blonde hair. He stumbles over the words a little, but he keeps going because he has to. "An' I wanna make sure you know that."

"You, too," she murmurs, tightening her hold. "Don't ever forget it."

As they retrace their steps from her street to the movie theater, he tells her about how it was—how it had happened, how she'd looked, how he'd felt. The words are hard to get out, but she doesn't seem to care.

"You remember all that?" she asks, a strange expression on her face.

He shrugs. "'Course I do. I remember every second I'm with you."

"Right," she says with a skeptical laugh. "What's the first thing ya thought when ya saw me?"

"I don't think I thought at all," he says. He remembers that first glimpse, and his breath catches in his throat all over again. "Too busy lookin'."

Velma smiles a little. "You ain't the only one who remembers that."

Ice can't help the flush that comes over his face. "It was dumb," he says, feeling self-conscious. "But I was happy."

She looks down, then, and bites her lip, but when he turns toward her she glances up again, expression unreadable. "Ya didn't have to do this, y'know."

"I wanted to," he says, because it's true. Velma is just about the only good thing left in his life nowadays and sometimes he can't breathe because he is so scared he might lose her too, somehow. He never used to be like this, Ice thinks with a sigh. But he knows now that anything is possible and that even if you think you're prepared for the worst, you never are.

"Good," Velma says, voice soft. "I'm glad." She slides her arms around him with a sigh. "Just like last year," she murmurs. "That was the best date I ever had, Ice."

Ice puts his arm around her and nods. He remembers another warm summer night, and feeling like nothing was ever going to be the same again. "Yeah," he says. "Me, too."

But as much as he loves being with her, and as much as he pretends otherwise, Ice knows that this is all a lie. It's just not the same. Without Riff and Graziella, pushing them together and heading off to make out in the back, it's just another date on a day that's supposed to be something special. Theirs. It's funny, he thinks, that today of all days they can't get away from that shadow.

Even the movie—that smallest of details—isn't the same. Instead of Frank, Bing, and Grace Kelly, it's Cary Grant and Deborah Kerr, Velma whispers to him as their smooth perfect faces fill the screen. It's still about love, it always is, but this time it's not so easy, not so neat. This time it's a year later and there are real problems that can't be solved by a kiss and a wedding and a love song. They end up together anyway, of course, or at least he thinks they do, because this is how it's supposed to be. Love, conquering all. Isn't it romantic.

One year, he thinks as she makes her way up the steps of her apartment building. At the top, Velma pauses and turns around. She doesn't say anything, just looks at him with that same smile from that first date. But even this, he sees, is different.

And the truth, Ice realizes then, is that no matter how hard they try, it isn't just like last year and it can't be because nothing is the same. Not even themselves. They are a year older, a year sadder, and in that year they've lost something he doesn't know if they can ever get back.

I'm sorry, he wants to say. This wasn't how it was supposed to be.

She retreats behind the door, then, and as is their habit, he goes around to the back and begins the climb up the fire escape. Velma meets him at her window with two glasses and a bottle of something fizzy in her hands. "Grabbed it from the kitchen," she says, and kisses him, long and slow. "Here's to the next year."

And it's good, it's great, just like it always is, but Velma's words make him shiver. The next year, Ice thinks, downing his drink as he remembers all that has happened in the last. And what will that bring? There is so much behind them, so much ahead, and no way to know what will happen.

"You an' me," he murmurs, and he tries to believe it, but all he can think is that he'd always believed Riff and Tony were going to be there forever, too. And as she wraps her arms around him, the weight presses down on his body and he feels a lump rise in his throat. Why? he wonders, choking it back and resting his hand on her back, why is he here when they're not?

"We've come a long way, ain't we?" she asks, her voice quiet in the darkness.

He nods. She can't see him, but he knows she can feel the movement. "Yeah," he says, thinking of all that has been and all that is not anymore. "We have."

"I love you," she says. It's more like a question.

And Ice steadies himself to give the only answer he can, the only thing he trusts himself to say now. She deserves that much out of him, at least.

"Yeah," he murmurs, running her hand so gently over her hair that he barely feels it. "I love you, too."

.

This time when the dream ends, he wakes to silence and shadow.

Ice eases himself out of the bed, relieved when Velma doesn't stir. Though a part of him wants to wake her and tell her everything—about his nightmares, the guilt, and worst of all the fear—Velma, he thinks, reaching for his clothes, shouldn't have to deal with his problems. She has enough to think about as it is these days. And it will be easier if she doesn't know, easier if he just lets this go away on its own. Because it will. It has to.

Pulling his shirt on, Ice takes one long, last look at her, and climbs out the window. He doesn't linger. Sunrise—the real one this time, the only constant left in his life—is coming, and he has to be there to see it when it does.


	18. shadows in the dust

Disclaimer: Same as always, with the caveat that I really think Jerry Robbins wants to beat me over the head by now, haha.

Note: 3.05.11. This was formerly the second half of chapter 17. Hopefully it's easier to read now. :)

—viennacantabile

* * *

fell the angels

eighteen : shadows in the dust

.

No one may know of it, but you never forget the thump—eh? A blow on the very heart. You remember it, you dream of it, you wake up at night and think of it—years after—and go hot and cold all over.

—Joseph Conrad, Heart of Darkness

.

Weeks later, he is crossing 67th when he sees a boy on the sidewalk.

Ice stares. He isn't sure which one it is, but he does know it is a Shark. In Jet territory. In the old days, that would have meant chasing him back to his own neighborhood and maybe a little souvenir to remember the Jets by. But today—a month and a half after that uneasy truce he'd agreed to with Pepe—he's not sure what to do.

He considers leaving, just walking away. It's only one of them, after all, and a skinny, scrawny one at that, who, if Ice remembers correctly, is the youngest and the newest. Which usually goes along with being the dumbest, and most likely to get caught up in trouble. Ice thinks of Baby John and sighs. He's not too sure he feels like beating on the kid's Shark counterpart, especially when they're not too far from the border anyway. A deal is a deal, though, and whatever else has changed in the last month, this is still Jet territory.

But before he can do anything, the Shark turns. At first his eyes widen, and Ice can almost see the muscles in the kid's legs shifting, readying to run. He'd be good at it, too, thinks Ice, taking in the Shark's thin, wiry frame. He's lighter and probably faster than Ice, that's for sure, but the Jet leader has a longer stride and familiarity with the neighborhood. The Shark could run—but there's no guarantee he'd get away.

The kid stands frozen for a full minute before Ice realizes that he is not, in fact, going to bolt. In that case, he thinks, holding the Shark's nervous gaze, what _is_ he going to do?

They stand silent for still longer before the Shark visibly gulps and takes a deep breath. "Oh," he says, accent made more prominent by the quaver in his voice. "It—it is you."

Ice blinks, at a loss for words. The kid's fearful gaze looks so much like Baby John's that he is having a hard time reconciling the voice with the face. He shakes his head. "What're ya doin' here?"

The boy shrugs his skinny shoulders. "I did not—I was just—"

"You ain't supposed to be here, kid," Ice says, in an effort to remember who he is. "The deal was we stay off each others' blocks an' no one gets hurt. This is Jet territory. And last time I checked, you're a Shark."

"I know—I am sorry," the boy says, taking a step back. "Maria asked me to bring something to Tony's mother, and I did not think it would be so very bad."

It is at this point, Ice knows, that he should remind the Shark that, reason or no reason, this is still Jet territory and he still needs to keep out. But all Ice can hear is that name of the girl who stood before him and pointed a gun at his heart, and all he can see is that anguished face and the heartbreak written there. Maria.

It takes him a moment to decide, but in the back of his mind he has an uneasy feeling it's what he was going to do all along. "Okay," he says, voice gruff. "You get a pass this once, but not again, dig? Now beat it."

The boy nods, eyes wide, before scrambling in the opposite direction as fast as he can run. Ice, watching him go, raises an eyebrow. Maybe, he thinks, he wouldn't have been able to catch him, after all.

As Ice begins walking again, he wonders if he's gone soft. He remembers a time when he wouldn't have thought twice before jumping a Shark and chasing him all the way back to his block. June. It's only August now. Has he really changed so much?

If he is honest with himself, Ice doesn't hate them. He doesn't. But he doesn't want to be buddies with them, either. He just never wants to see them again in his life. He wants to forget everything that has anything to do with the fact that Riff and Tony are gone, and that things have changed so much that the Ice of today, the captain who'd hooked a small fish and thrown him back, is unrecognizable as the Ice who'd taunted a powerless Bernardo months ago, confident in his own status as a top Jet. The Ice who had no worries at all.

If he'd known then, he wonders, would he have done anything different? Would he have pushed for peace instead, backed Tony up at the rumble? He can't stop thinking about it, can't stop replaying that night in his head. He has to fix it, Ice thinks. He has to find what went wrong and make sure it never happens again. It's about more than the Jets now. He remembers that exquisite face and shudders.

_You _all_ killed him_.

And what he hadn't said then—what he is still afraid of, even now—was that she was right.

.

Despite his best intentions, Ice still can't stop the Jets from getting into scuffles with everyone from the kids at the basketball court to the man in the ice cream truck.

"Knock it off!" he snaps, frustrated, as he yanks A-Rab and Joyboy off a dark-haired kid in mid-August. It's broad daylight and _still_ the Jets can't keep from picking fights with every Tom, Dick, and Harry who walks by? he thinks, incredulous. "The hell d'ya think you're doin'?"

A-Rab wipes his sleeve across his damp face. "It was them who started it!" he protests, jabbing an accusing finger at the departing boy and his friends. "Them little rat-faced Sicilian wops! Right, buddy-boys?"

"It's true," adds Baby John with a shudder. "They just came outta nowhere!"

"Yeah," spits Action, glowering after them. "An' then they said Jets was stinkin' cowards an' lousy fighters. What'd ya want us to do, roll over an' play dead an' prove it was true?"

Ice stares at them. God, he thinks. What is he supposed to say to that?

"No," he finally says, feeling a strange sort of thudding in his chest. "Jesus, no."

"Well, then, whadda we do?" asks A-Rab, and from the look in his eyes, he really wants to know. He isn't the only one—how can the Jets keep cool without taking that kind of crap? Ice wonders. How can they stay out of trouble without other gangs giving it to them? Where is the balance in all of this?

He wishes he knew. He wishes a lot of things.

But in the end, Ice is the leader of a gang, and there is only one answer.

"I want you to give 'em hell."

"Really? Ya mean it?" A-Rab gapes, taking a step forward. "We can?"

Ice nods. "They can't—they can't go around sayin' crap like that," he says. His mouth is dry. "So you let 'em know that."

"_There's_ the Jet I knew," says Action, throwing up his hands. "Ice-man, where ya been?"

Ice just shrugs. He isn't sure that this is the right thing to do—he never is anymore—but in the end, he can't tell his gang anything else. It isn't so much about what the kids said, he thinks. It isn't even about the kids themselves. He knows his gang. In this heat, they need something or someone to fight against. They need the struggle they've been living all their lives. Almost two months of quiet or no, the Jets were born to rumble, born to fight, and try as he might, there is nothing he can to do stop them. All he can do, he thinks, is stop it from going too far.

"I knew he'd say that. We're Jets," pipes up Baby John, blue eyes bright and still somehow innocent. "An' they gotta respect that, don't they, Ice?"

"Yeah," he says. His mind is a mess right now. He wonders if Riff or Tony had ever felt this way. Riff, maybe, after Tony left—Ice still remembers those furtive glances toward the door on the day of the rumble. But if Riff felt like he had no clue what he was doing, he never let on. And that, he realizes, is what he has to do now. "Yeah," he says again, stronger this time. "They do."

.

Ten days later, the Jets get what they've been waiting for.

Ice is sitting in his usual spot in the back when the door to the candy store slams open and three dark-skinned boys in leather jackets saunter in.

And in an instant, the other ten Jets are up, alert, eyes narrowed and fists clenched. This is their territory, their headquarters, and as the Musclers advance Ice sets his jaw. Here we go, he thinks, resigned. There is no avoiding this anymore.

Doc takes a step forward, face worried. "Boys—"

But Ice shakes his head. The Musclers are from a rough part of town, and yeah, he might be getting soft, but he wouldn't put it past them to knock out Doc's windows or rob him or something and the old man doesn't deserve that. He remembers another meeting, another time. "Later, Doc."

The old man glances back, then releases a helpless sigh before retreating into the back. Only Baby John watches him go. The rest of them have better things to look at.

As the three boys make their way over to Ice's table, Ice taps the ash from his cigarette and inhales. He doesn't get up. "Little warm for leather, don't ya think?"

"Looky here, boys," the biggest one says, crossing his arms. "A buncha little Jet planes. I think I used to play with stuff like that when I was little."

And there it is, Ice thinks. The first shot. "You're on our turf," he says, his voice low and flat. "Got any excuse?"

"Oh, we thought we'd pay ya a friendly visit, make peace with the natives," says the leader. "I'm Tank. This's Bullet," he says, gesturing toward a whippet-quick, wiry boy, then to the huge one. "An' Basher. Nice matched set, ain't they?"

"I don't think I like 'em, actually," says Ice, his voice cool. "'Least not here where they don't belong."

Tank crosses his arms. "Yeah? We don't like what we see, neither." He flashes a thin smile. "This here's a nice block. It oughta have better keepers."

"It's got the _best_!" bursts an indignant Baby John before A-Rab shoves him.

Tank swings around to stare at the youngest Jet. "Think so, kid? Wouldn't mind puttin' a good word in with Santa Claus for me, then, would ya? I guess I'm on his naughty list." He grins, then sweeps his gaze around the Jets. "'Least, I will be after we crush this little two-bit excuse for a gang."

Action, flanked by the Boyer twins, growls and takes a step forward. Before he can do anything, Ice stands up. The Muscler is tall, but the Jet captain is taller, and as he stares down at Tank, the boy's expression grows wary.

"You talk as big as you are," says Ice, eyes narrowed. "We'll see if you can back it up."

The Muscler captain watches him in silence for a moment, before giving him a slow nod. "Count on it."

After the door swings shut behind him, the Jets crowd in around their captain.

"What're we gonna do, Ice?" Baby John asks, his face scared. "Those guys were _huge_."

"Them no-good Musclers!" spits a furious Action. "What'd I tell ya, huh? They're after our territory!"

"Gee, ya think so?" snaps Anybodys, pushing her way to the front. "Ice, c'mon, lemme at 'em! Single combat, whaddaya say?"

"What are ya, nuts?" scoffs A-Rab. "They'd crush ya like a bug!"

Anybodys spins on him, but her retort is lost on Ice when Snowboy guffaws. "No, let her!" he snickers. "I'd pay a quarter to see that contest—think-a the guy's _face_ when he sees her!"

"Yeah, 'cause we sent a _girl_," mumbles Gee-Tar. "What kinda gang would we look like?"

Big Deal rolls his eyes. "Like you'd be any better?"

Ice clears his throat. "It ain't comin' to that, an' even if it did, it wouldn't be you," he tells Anybodys. "Not 'less they was scared-a girls or somethin'."

"Like Baby John?" Action asks, rolling his eyes. "That ain't gonna happen. If anyone's fightin' 'em, it's _me_!"

As the rest of the Jets chime in, in favor or not, Ice sighs. The Jets, even if they are the greatest gang in the city, aren't exactly the best at sitting back and taking a good hard look at things. "Listen—"

But no one does. Action is running his mouth, Snowboy is cracking jokes, and A-Rab and Anybodys are arguing. The same as always, except right now, he thinks, they've got work to do, don't they see that? Mouthpiece and Tiger are conferring and making a show of punching each other, Big Deal is cracking his gum, and Gee-Tar and Joyboy are listening to Snowboy. Only Baby John is still hovering around his captain. He should do something, Ice realizes. Get them organized.

He clears his throat. "Jets—"

But the noise is still growing to a din that doesn't stop until Ice snaps his fingers, loud and sharp, and they look at him, surprised.

"Look. We'll run 'em off," he says in the silence that follows, voice cool and confident. Now that they've been challenged, they don't have any choice. They will fight, and they will win. "We always do."

Around him, heads nod, and Ice remembers how Riff used to do it. Is this all it takes? he wonders. One guy, ready to stand up and give the orders? Is this really all they need?

"You know what to do," he says, voice steady. They have been through this before, all of them. Even Baby John. "Hang around in pairs. Keep an' eye out for them Musclers." Ice nods to A-Rab, Anybodys, and Baby John. "Rank-an'-file, you scout. Stay outta trouble. Rocketmen—" He looks at Tiger, Mouthpiece, and Gee-Tar. "Start gettin' our weapons together, makin' sure we got everythin'. I want the bats, belts, the full works. Don't be afraid to use 'em if ya see someone where they shouldn't be, but don't let 'em know how much we got, neither." Finally, he glances to Big Deal, Action, and the twins. "Acemen. Work 'em over. You see any of 'em—make 'em remember ya."

Ten heads nod, and Ice holds back a sigh. He doesn't drink all that much, but there is nothing more he wants than a glass of something stiff right now. Being captain, he is starting to realize, is is a lot harder than Riff or Tony ever made it seem. But someone has to do it, he thinks, and it looks like that someone is him.

"Okay," he says. "Go."

The last few Jets are just slipping out the door when Ice clears his throat. "Anybodys."

The girl is at his side in a flash. "Yeah, Daddy-O?" she asks, blue eyes bright in her grimy face. "You gonna let me fight 'em?"

"No. Keep a lookout," he says. "I wanna know how many-a those kids show up, where they go, what they do. Hell, I even wanna know how many times they get hauled down to the station house and whose ma Schrank insults more'n five times." He can feel a rusty half-smile edge onto his face. "Stick to them shadows you're always sendin' a valentine to, huh?"

A grin splits her face, and for a moment she looks so happy that Ice wonders what that feels like because he doesn't remember anymore. The thrill of just being a Jet and knowing what he has to do. That absolute certainty.

"Right!" she says, and already she is poised to run off. But Ice stops her.

"Hang on a minute, will ya?"

Anybodys pauses, and for the first time, Ice sees the alert, almost hungry look in her eyes replaced by something softer he can't identify. "Yeah?"

"Look," he says. "I got a special assignment I want ya to do for me."

The tomboy lights up. "Ya want I should scout out their territory, too? I could sneak in, maybe raid their headquarters. It's in the back of one-a them barbershop places, I know that much, starts with an H—"

"No," he says before she gets any more ideas. "Two things. One, you're already good with PR territory. Spy around, lemme know what they're up to. _Don't do anythin_'," he adds sternly. "Things're quiet with 'em an' I like it that way. I just wanna know if they're holdin' up on their side-a things. I don't wanna find 'em sneakin' up behind us when we got this other gang to deal with. Dig?"

Anybodys nods smartly. "Dig, Daddy-O. What else?"

Ice holds back a sigh. He has a feeling she isn't going to like this particular request. "A-Rab. An' Baby John."

Anybodys eyes him, her gaze wary. "What about 'em?"

"They stick out," he explains. "Anyplace they go. Always gettin' into trouble, an' the last thing we need's another brawl on the playground or Baby John gettin' stuck in the ear again. I need you to keep an' eye on 'em."

A look of disgust covers her face. "Aww, hell, Ice, you ain't makin' me babysit Captain Marvel an' his flyin' monkey, are ya?"

"Orders," he tells her, amused in spite of himself. "You're rank-an'-file, kid. So're they. You wanted to be a Jet; this is what it's all about. Lookin' out for your buddies."

"Aww, fine," Anybodys snaps, her face twisted into a scowl. "I'll do it. But I ain't gonna like it!"

Ice shrugs. "Ya don't have to." He hesitates, then feels the corner of his mouth creak up into that half-smile again. "Thanks, buddy-boy."

And there again is that look in her eyes he doesn't quite understand. "You got it, Daddy-O!" She is off and running before he can say anything else, and Ice, as he watches her go, sighs. It hasn't even been two months, and it is beginning again. And this time, unlike the last, he has no idea how it is going to end.

.

He's not particularly surprised to find a man waiting in the alley.

"Evenin', Ice."

Ice doesn't look as he shoulders past him. "Evenin'."

"What?" asks the man, following him. "No hugs for your old pal Schrank?"

Ice keeps his face blank. "Sorry."

"How's business going, kid?" the lieutenant persists, eyeing him with his shrewd gaze. "You thinkin' about gettin' those Sharks back for your dead pals?"

"I thought I'd leave it alone," replies Ice, his voice cold. "Like maybe you oughta. Ever heard-a respect for the dead, lieutenant?"

"When ya see 'em as often as I do?" scoffs Schrank. "I ain't some bleedin'-heart Glad Hand. People don't change just 'cause their forwarding address is the morgue, y'know."

Ice doesn't answer, just quickens his pace until he is a few strides ahead of the man. One day, he thinks, clenching his fists, Schrank's big mouth is going to catch up with him. And Ice can only hope he will be there to see it when it does.

"You decided what it's gonna be, Ice?" calls the lieutenant, a tinge of mocking scorn coloring his voice. "You gonna go straight? Get off the streets? Or end up like your buddies?"

Ice wills the rage in his body to go away. "I ain't Action," he replies, voice tight. "An' you ain't gonna get me to land myself in the can. I'm done, we're all done, an' we ain't lookin' for trouble, okay?"

"I know you tough guy-types," taunts Schrank. "You think you've got it all figured out. Then something comes along an' knocks you off your feet and onto your ass an' you're worse off than you ever were." He pauses, looking Ice up and down with a sneer. "You're no better'n any-a the boys I've seen. Just luckier." He shakes his head. "At least, so far."

Ice grits his teeth and takes a deep breath. No, he thinks. It takes every bit of his self-control, but giving the lieutenant a short nod, he moves on. Knocking Schrank out won't solve anything, he knows. Just get him sent to the slammer. No.

When he gets home, his mother glances at him. "Are ye all right, John?" she asks, pale eyes concerned.

Ice pauses, a million thoughts in his mind at once. Schrank. Anybodys. The Musclers. The Jets. Tony. Riff. Velma. It never ends.

"Yeah," he says at last. "Fine."

.

They are lying on her bed when he tells her about the Musclers.

"They anythin' to be worried about?" Velma asks, and in the dark he hesitates. He doesn't quite think so, no, but nowadays he takes nothing for granted. Tank and Basher were just as big as Tiger and Mouthpiece after all, and though he's seen a couple others before he's not sure yet what their numbers are. But if he tells her, she'll just worry, and Ice doesn't want that. Especially when he's almost positive the Jets can handle them.

"No," he finally says, and the word settles deep into the air around him. It's not a lie. But between them now is that half-truth that has never been there before and Ice doesn't know what it will mean. If it will change anything. If it even matters at all.

There is a long silence, and then Velma's voice comes as if from far away.

"That's good."

Ice waits for a moment, but when he realizes she isn't going to say anything else, he releases a long breath. In the back of his mind he still remembers the sadness in her voice. _I just don't want it to be you next time_.

"How's Graz?" he asks tentatively. He hasn't seen the redhead much in the past month or so, and even after Velma has been with her best friend, she never wants to talk about her—just leans into him and doesn't say a word. It's not easy, Ice thinks, being the one who is supposed to have all the answers.

There is another pause, and Ice isn't sure, but he thinks he hears her inhale, quiet and slow.

"She's fine."

"I'm glad," he says, staring up at the ceiling. It's harder and harder to talk to Graziella even when she is around these days, because all he can see when he looks at her is Riff and what should have been. And he can't help feeling guilty for that. Of all people, Ice thinks with a sigh, he should be the one to understand that it isn't so easy when the person you have lost is someone like Riff.

He is almost asleep when Velma moves closer.

"School's startin' tomorrow, y'know."

Ice blinks. He'd forgotten. "Really?"

Beside him, Velma nods. "Summer's over," she says, her voice soft. "This'll be my last year."

"You excited?" he asks, putting his arm around her. He doesn't know what else to say. It's odd, he thinks, being done with all of that. Even if he'd skipped half the time and slacked off the rest, there was always that upcoming year ahead of him. And now that there isn't, he isn't quite sure how to feel.

"Yeah. Maybe. I don't know," she says, voice wistful. "I keep hopin' Graz'll change her mind about droppin' out, but even if she does, it won't be the same, not without you an'—even Bernice. Clarice said she's goin' to stay with their family in Sicily, did ya know that?"

It's a rare stumble for her, and if Ice didn't know her so well, he might not have noticed the catch in her smooth voice. But Ice knows who she really means, anyway.

"No," he says, "I didn't. But even if Graz an' Bernice don't come back, Clarice'll still be there," he offers. "An' Minnie. An' a couple Jets. Even your brother," he adds, for lack of anything else. "Oh, an' don't forget, I'll pick ya up after an' walk ya over to Doc's, same as always."

"I know," she sighs. "But still. It won't be the same."

Ice stares at the ceiling. And that's the problem, he thinks. "Nothin' ever is."

"What's goin' to happen, Ice?" she asks, voice soft. "To all of us?"

"I don't know," he says quietly. If he has learned anything over the past few months, it is that no one can. And even if he could, he thinks, the air unmoving in his body, he's not sure if he'd want to. He pulls her closer, breathes in and remembers a time when everything seemed so simple. So easy. "I don't know."


	19. willow and columbine

Disclaimer: Bah, not mine. Minus some **LCV Productions**-specific details.

Note: This is the first half of what used to be chapter 18. When chapter 20 got to be 10,000 words or so, I decided to split it. Of course, since I'd had similar issues with chapter 17 and 18, I figured I might as well split those up, too, to make it easier on everybody's eyes. -_- So, if you read those two chapters before 3.05.11, feel free to proceed to chapter 21!

For: **HedgehogQuill**, whose fic "Married In Green" you definitely want to check out if you want to know more about some of the events referenced here (also, SHE GOT ME CAROLE D'ANDREA'S AUTOGRAPH FOR CHRISTMAS. How awesome is she?), and **RhapsodyInProgress**, who has pretty much kept me sane for the last six months or so with her amazing stories. And anyone at all who's reading this. Thank you muchly! :)

—viennacantabile

* * *

fell the angels

nineteen : willow and columbine

.

When it was Ophelia's time to sing,  
and so little life was left to her,  
the dryness of her soul was swept away  
like straws from haystacks in a storm.

When it was Ophelia's time to sing,  
and the bitterness of tears was more  
than she could bear, what trophies  
did she hold? Willow, and columbine.

—Boris Pasternak, "English Lessons"

.

On risque de pleurer un peu si l'on s'est laissé apprivoiser...

You risk tears if you let yourself be tamed.

—Antoine de Saint-Exupéry, Le Petit Prince

.

By the time school is in its second week, Velma still hasn't been able to stop the reflexive glance around in the morning. It's just different, that's all, without Riff and Tony lounging against the fence, cracking jokes and plotting pranks. Without Graziella, trying her hardest to make Riff jealous with Tiger looking on. Without Bernice—and even Pauline—flirting with all the Jets, taken or not. And without Ice, giving her that slow easy smile that says everything is all right. Everything. How is she supposed to know that now, with all these faces gone? Action rounds up the Boyer twins and the younger Jets and sits in Riff and Tony's old spot, and Velma, Clarice, and Minnie take their familiar places, too, but it's not the same and everyone knows it. People still talk about the Jets, sure, but nowadays there are question marks and doubts that never existed before. Rumors. Whispers that maybe the Jets weren't as tough, as untouchable as everyone thought. After all, if their leaders went down to some skinny Spic who popped them with a zip gun….

They don't know everything that happened this summer, Velma thinks as she avoids her classmates' sidelong glances with her head held high, and their guesses aren't much better, but what they can see is enough. And it strikes her, sometimes, that Graziella made the right decision, not coming back. This—high school, and everything that comes along with it—is not what her best friend needs right now. Whispers, stares, gossip. Bad enough to be the girl whose boyfriend died. Even worse to be the one knocked up three months later. And she isn't sure Graziella would be able to face the naked curiosity. Velma knows she herself couldn't. It's hard enough as it is.

It's just that it doesn't feel real, she thinks, her gaze sweeping around one last time, this return to everyday normal routine, and she can't help looking for those absent friends she knows are never coming back here. She can't help hoping that just once something will be different. That something will change.

Velma knows, though, that it's foolish. Even if she wishes as hard as she can, she won't get a miracle, least of all one that pushes the clocks back to this time last year when life was still bright and wonderful. When three boys who loved and were loved were still alive and the girls who mourn them now were still whole. When none of them could ever dream of what fear and death were.

It's strange, Velma thinks, how very different life looks on this side of mortality.

At lunch on that second Monday, she meets Clarice at their usual table and gives her as sincere a smile as she can manage.

"How's Bernice?"

Clarice shrugs, setting her food down. "Same. Says the food is to die for an' the boys are divine but it's impossible gettin' more'n a look what with all the family around."

Velma has to smile—this, at least, is normal. "Sounds like she's havin' a good time in Sicily, though."

"Yeah, I guess," says Clarice, pushing her spaghetti around her tray and giving it a skeptical look. "Anyway—it's funny, ain't it?" she asks, taking a bite.

Velma glances up from her salad as a faintly nauseated expression appears on the brunette's face. "What, the spaghetti?"

"That, too," says Clarice with a grimace after a sip of water. "But I meant them not bein' here. Graz an' Bernice. An'—everyone else."

Velma stares down at her fork. "Yeah," she sighs. They've gone through this over and over again but somehow the conversation keeps coming back to this topic. "I know what ya mean."

Clarice looks around, then leans in. "How's Graz doin'?"

Velma, too, glances to the left and right before answering. "Well as she can be, I guess. Tiger proposed again, y'know."

Clarice's eyes widen. "He did?"

Velma nods. "Graz said no, a-course. Said since he left school an' all to help out, she'd let him, but she didn't wanna marry him, same as the last time he asked." She hesitates. As far as she knows, Graziella has only told herself and Clarice about the baby, and only Velma knows who the real father is. "D'ya think she did the right thing?"

Clarice, poking at her food, doesn't answer for awhile. When she does, her response is measured.

"It'd be easier, lettin' him take care-a her."

Velma watches her keenly, conscious of what the brunette isn't saying. "It ain't the same thing, though."

Clarice meets her gaze, and Velma can see her own troubled thoughts reflected in her friend's brown eyes. "No. It ain't."

Velma looks down at her sandwich. "Nothin's ever easy anymore, is it."

Clarice sighs, and Velma is startled to hear how distant her voice sounds. "No. I don't think it will be, either. At least not for awhile."

Velma picks at her napkin. "I never know what to say to Graz anymore," she confesses in a low voice. She's ashamed of it—Graz is her best friend, after all—but there it is. "Or what to do, to make her feel better. I ought to, but I don't."

Clarice gives her a sharp glance. "Vel—ya just gotta remember there ain't nothin' you _can_ do."

She bites her lip. Everything is slipping from her grasp. "That's the hard part."

"Just keep doin' what you're doin'," the brunette says, propping her chin on her hand. "Let her talk, if she wants to. Be there." Again her voice sounds far away. "It ain't much, maybe, but I know it means a lot."

Velma stares at her food. Maybe Clarice is right, she thinks. There isn't much she can control anymore, but there is still Graziella, and being her friend. It isn't fixing things—it never will be—but maybe it's enough, for now. She glances at her friend. "It must be nice," she says, "havin' a sister who's so close to ya."

Clarice's fork slips from her hand and sticks upright in her abandoned spaghetti. "What makes ya say that?"

Velma shrugs. "My sisters wouldn't know what to tell me about Graz," she says, "even if I asked. It ain't that we don't love each other," Velma goes on, "but they're older, an' they never lived here—it must be nice," she says again. "Havin' someone like that. Even if she is all the way across the world."

Clarice gives her a small smile. "Yeah, I guess."

Velma smiles back. "Anyway, thanks." She hesitates. "There ain't a lotta people who'd understand."

"Don't mention it," says her friend, eyes on her spaghetti as she gingerly pushes her tray away. "What're Jet girls for, anyway?"

"That for me?" comes a cheerful voice as Big Deal tosses his sack lunch onto the table and slings his arm around the brunette.

Clarice, turning to him, beams. "Frankie!"

Velma, watching the couple settle in, feels a strange sense of loneliness. Last year, she thinks, she and Ice would have been right there with them, talking and laughing and living up to their reputation as one of the few rock-solid couples in the Jets.

But that was last year, she thinks, taking a swig of her milk, and like it or not, the world is turning and she has to keep moving forward right along with it, and do everything in her power to be there for the people who need her. No matter what happens.

.

In the days that follow, Velma takes Clarice's advice and tries to be there for her best friend. She is with her, in the afternoons and evenings when Graziella complains or cries or simply sits there, silent, unable to say a word. Velma can't blame her, she thinks on one of these occasions when Graziella sits huddled in the corner where her bed meets the wall. She wouldn't know what to say, either, if it were her boyfriend, and her baby.

Graziella hasn't told her parents yet. "They don't need to know," she keeps saying, and Velma wonders what she will do when she really begins to show. Right now she is just the slightest bit heavier, a step closer to the edge of plump, and anyway no one would blame Graziella for gaining a little weight, what with everything she's going through. It's what lies ahead, though, that worries Velma. And again there is only one certainty: things can't go on like this. With Graziella. And with Ice.

Nothing is the same. Ice is distracted, tense, preoccupied, in a way he never has been before. He is always with the Jets, and even when he is with her, he's not. Not really. Not like how it used to be. And sometimes she waits and waits until dawn, sleepless and silent in the darkness, before she will admit that he isn't coming. In the mornings she is heavy-eyed and quiet, but none of that would matter if she could just believe that any of it makes a difference. To either of the people she loves.

But there are never any answers, nothing she can say when her own parents look at her with questioning eyes. There is nothing she can do but make her excuses and retreat to her room. Velma knows what they must think, and she can't blame them. One night she hears them before she's even turned on the light:

"It's the Jets," says her father in Swedish. "And that boy."

"And Graziella," says her mother, her voice gentle. "The poor girl."

Dr. Andersen sighs. "I should never have brought us here. Sometimes I think—we should go back."

Velma bites her lip to keep from crying out in the darkness. No, she thinks, the answer automatic, no. And then she wonders.

Back to the East Side. Back to well-kept streets and orderly schools, untroubled friendships and intact familes. Back to an endless stream of perfect, gentlemanly, well-mannered dates whose faces she can't remember. Back to her old life.

It would be simpler, she thinks, a little wistful, away from all of this.

And then she remembers everything that has happened in the past fifteen months. Summer dusk spent on fire escapes counting stars. Whispers and secrets with a best friend who showed her another world she'd never even dreamt of. And a name, given to her in the middle of the night. Vee.

What's easiest isn't the same as what's right, and it's too late anyway, she realizes. Too late to go back and pretend she can forget all of this. No matter what, now—they have to keep going.

Velma reaches forward, turns on a lamp, watches it fill the room with a soft glow. It isn't all that much light, but it's enough to keep the dark at bay.

Maybe she can't help. Maybe she can't do everything. Maybe she can't hold back the night, she thinks, crossing the room to open the window. But at least she can try.

.

It's just after school a week or two later and Velma is just reaching the chain-link fences of the playground when she hears two low voices.

"—so I an' A-Rab, we been raidin' their headquarters behind the barbershop. Sneakin' in an' out after dark when they're gone an' nabbin' their weapons. We got lots of them, an' what we left so's not to make 'em wise to it, we sabotaged," says the first, a sharp, darting voice that Velma is sure she knows but can't quite place. The next, though, is much more familiar.

"Right. Okay, what about the Vipers?"

It's Ice, she realizes with a start. Ice, who's been at the school gates to meet her less and less after school these days, always with a message to let her know, of course, and today's was no different: Jet business. Which appears, she thinks now as the voices continue, to involve just Ice and Anybodys.

And it is Anybodys, Velma is sure of that, because even Baby John, sweet as he is, doesn't exactly sound like a girl, and for all that she tries to prove otherwise, that is still what the tomboy is.

She could walk up to them, Velma knows, say hello and continue on to where the other Jets are surely waiting in Doc's. But something holds her back to listen.

"Still just messin' around. They got nothin' on us," says Anybodys, her voice scornful "Just a crowd-a little Sicilians."

"Good," says Ice, and Velma can just imagine the taut satisfaction on his face. "Now, look—I got a special assignment for you, okay?"

"Dig, Daddy-O," says Anybodys, and Velma blinks at the eagerness in her voice and remembers, for a moment, the last smile she'd seen from the girl a week ago, shining up at the Jet captain. Could she—

"There's this guy that's been hangin' around, see," says Ice, and his voice is different now. Focused. "I don't know what he's up to, but I don't like the looks of him. He's tall. Blond. Doesn't say much, but he looks dangerous. Tail him, okay? Find out what he wants over here."

"Right!" says Anybodys. "D'ya got a name? Which gang's he in?"

There is a short pause. "That's what I want ya to find out," Ice finally replies. "Just stick to him like Joyboy does his lollipops. An' be careful. Don't tell no one else about this, neither."

"Anythin' ya say, boss!" says the girl, and Velma's eyes widen as the redhead comes dashing out of the playground and disappears down the next street without a glance at her. Ice follows a moment later, and Velma, having readied herself, smiles at him like she's heard nothing.

"Hi, honey."

"Hey," he says, clearly still distracted, and loops his arm around her shoulder as they walk the short distance to the candy store. Velma decides she might as well ask, after all.

"Anybodys sure lit outta there in a hurry," she says, keeping her voice light. "What'd ya do, tell her she had to wear a dress?"

Ice doesn't even blink. "Nah. She—forgot her homework."

Ice hasn't gotten any better at lying in the nearly four months since he became captain and this attempt is so bad that Velma feels justified in going further. "She wasn't doin' somethin' for ya, was she?"

Ice shrugs, his gaze skittering away from her. "Dunno."

Velma keeps her eyes on him and the distant look in his eyes. After a moment, she bites her lip. She supposes it doesn't matter that he isn't telling her the truth. Not really. As long as everything's all right, which it sounds like it is.

But even so, she doesn't like this feeling at all.

.

Two days later on the first of October, Velma and Clarice are in Bloomingdales, inspecting the maternity section. Graziella still hasn't said anything to anyone but Velma and Clarice, but Tiger despite his promises of silence, has never been good at keeping secrets and at this point they figure they might as well get a head start on the baby shower. There is so much to see, though, that Velma thinks they could look for a month and still not have gone through half of it.

"Look at this," giggles Clarice, holding up a frilly christening gown overflowing with lace. "Think you could find a baby in alla this?"

Velma laughs. "Good luck. Oh, look at this!" she says, attention diverted by a stuffed yellow lion. "It's too cute!"

Clarice grabs a pink pig and bats at the lion. "Oink!"

"We shoulda brought Minnie," Velma says with a smile, before she remembers. No one's told Minnie about the real reason Graziella's dropped out of school, and she doesn't think anyone's going to when there's really no reason to worry her. She'll eventually figure it out—even Minnie isn't _that_ naïve—but by then it won't really matter anymore. Even so, Velma glances at Minnie's best friend, feeling a little guilty.

Clarice, though, for once doesn't seem to notice the mistake. "Minnie'd love these," she agrees, pouncing on a green bird and then almost immediately dropping it again with a gasp. "But oh, look at the weeny little clothes!"

Velma follows Clarice's gaze with a smile. Most girls, she knows, get excited at the very mention of babies and Clarice, judging from her high-pitched squeals, is one of them. Velma can't quite blame her—there's just something sweet and innocent in the idea of it. At least, Velma thinks wistfully, when all goes according to plan.

"Graz wants a boy," she says, watching Clarice finger a pair of pink socks. "She ain't said, but I can tell."

The brunette sighs. "I know," she says, but she doesn't put them down. "Wouldn't it be cute, though? A little girl, just like a doll to play with. "

Velma smiles, picking up the stuffed lion again. "Yeah, it would." She studies it for a moment, and then puts it back down in favor of a plastic mobile with ducks swinging around the sides. "I wonder what it'll be like, havin' a baby around," she says. "I was little when _Mamma_ had Chris, so I don't really remember." She glances at Clarice, whose back is toward her. "You don't have any younger brothers or sisters, but you have baby cousins, right? What's it like?"

Clarice, still clutching the socks, turns to Velma, her face flushed. "Look, Vel—speakin'-a that—there's somethin' I gotta say," she blurts, taking a step closer. "I ain't really supposed to tell people, but I know you won't blab it around."

"No, a-course not," Velma says, puzzled. "What is it?"

Clarice hesitates. "Well—I know it's funny," she says, a strange expression on her pretty face, "but—Mama's havin' another baby."

Velma blinks. Whatever she'd expected, it certainly hadn't been that. "Really?"

"Well, a-course really!" Clarice laughs with a wide smile. "She's due in January."

"Wow," says Velma, amazed. "That's—that's great, Clarice. Everyone must be real excited. Is Bernice goin' to come back when she has the baby?"

The brunette's expression flickers for a moment, but comes back even brighter than before. "I think so. Maybe. Mama's real excited," she adds. "She thought she was done!"

"Wow," Velma says again, trying to imagine the twins with a little brother or sister. "Tell her I said congratulations, all right?"

"I will," says Clarice, glancing sideways at her. "Anyway, how's Ice?" She purses her lips. "Frankie's been kinda worried about him, y'know."

Velma's eyes widen, all thoughts of Mrs. Gambini's baby fading. "What'd he say?"

Clarice shrugs. "Just that he looked tired all the time. He said anythin' to you?"

Velma bites her lip. "Well—no," she says in a small voice. "I wish he would. He used to, a little. But nowadays he just says everythin's okay but then he gets up an' leaves before I wake up an'—" She hesitates.

"What?" asks Clarice, her dark eyes sympathetic. "You can tell me, Vel."

Velma glances at her. If not for Graziella, Clarice might have been her best friend. It's a thought that's reoccurred to her several times over the last month or so, as Graziella has withdrawn deeper into herself. But what's important, Velma knows, is that she can trust Clarice not to laugh at her, can know that she, too, worries about the same thing. "He won't let me in," she murmurs with a sigh, thinking again of that overheard meeting in the playground. "No matter how hard I try."

"Maybe he's trying to protect ya," Clarice suggests, her voice soft.

Velma shakes her head, unconvinced. "If he is, that's silly. I was there that night, too."

Clarice shrugs. "It don't have to make sense for him to feel that way."

"Does Big Deal do that to you?" Velma asks, curious. The two boys aren't all that much alike, but even so, they're both Jets and she figures Clarice has to be dealing with some of the same problems.

Clarice's mouth twists in an unexpected laugh. "_Dio mio_, Vel, sometimes I can't get him to _stop_ talkin' when I want him to!" She smirks. "So I just shut him up. _You_ know how."

Velma giggles. "Do I ever!"

"Speakin'-a shuttin' boys up," says Clarice, a little glint in her eye, "I've got my eye on a little dress one floor down. Purple, with beading all over it. Mind takin' a look with me?"

"Sure," Velma agrees, trying to put Ice out of her mind and figuring that this will do the trick as well as anything. "Mind if we stop by the makeup section, though? Astrid told me about some new lipstick that came in, an' I wanna try it."

Clarice grins. "Sure. An' hey," she adds, catching Velma by the wrist as she turns to go, "don't worry about Ice, okay? He'll be fine."

Velma smiles, but doesn't answer. It's what she's been telling him all along, but only now does she realize that hearing it doesn't seem to make it any more easy to believe.

.

When she says it, Velma almost doesn't believe it.

"I'm marryin' Tiger."

"What?" Velma asks, feeling cold. Graziella's voice is flat, matter-of-fact. Not the way she ever expected her best friend to announce her engagement. But then, Velma thinks, biting her lip, there are a lot of things she never expected to happen and there isn't much that is the way it used to be. She doesn't have to look far—just to the gentle curve of Graziella's belly, and now the ring on her finger—to know that.

"Yeah," the redhead says, offering up her left hand for inspection. Velma's seen the ring, of course; she saw it when Tiger first proposed not even two months ago. It's pretty, yes, but for Graziella—

Velma tries to find her best friend's gaze. "I thought ya turned him down, Graz."

Graziella shrugs, running her hand through her vivid hair. "Changed my mind."

"But after sayin' no so many times?" Velma asks, uncomprehending. "You said you wouldn't, not ever, even if the baby _was_ Ti—"

"Things change, Vel," says Graziella, an edge to her voice. "I thought you'd be happy for me."

Velma takes a deep breath, and releases it. "I am," she says slowly, feeling strange. "No, I am, Graz, I just—"

"Be my maid of honor?" Graziella asks, and if she were the kind to enjoy black humor, Velma would almost laugh because it turns out Graziella was right all those months ago, after all. She is getting married, and Velma will be there with her. She doesn't doubt Graziella has the dress, the church, and the flowers all picked out, too. The only thing the redhead didn't predict was the groom.

"Sure," she says, her voice soft. "A-course, Graz. Don't forget," she goes on, trying to bring back a lighter mood, "you're gonna be mine, too, whenever that happens."

Graziella stares at her. "A-course," she echoes after a moment, and her laugh is short, clipped. "A-course I will. You an' your fairy tale wedding."

Velma gazes back at her. "What?" she asks, confused. "I mean, nothin's happened, I just—"

"But it will," says Graziella, her voice bitter. "'Cause it always does for you, don't it."

Velma stares at her, but Graziella doesn't meet her eyes. "Graz, I—"

"Sure. Yeah," she says, waving a hand. The ring on her finger catches the light and sends it fragmented in all directions. "Your day, my day. We'll both be there."

Velma bites her lip. She thinks of those shadowy nights and how Ice never really seems to see her anymore. She remembers Graziella lying on her bed, bent in half and breaking from sorrow while Velma just sits there, helpless to do anything. And she sighs. If only.

"I'm happy for ya, Graz," she says, her voice soft. "Really. If you're happy, I'm happy."

Graziella's smile doesn't quite reach her eyes. "I am."

Twenty minutes later, Velma opens the door to Doc's, thoughts whirling. Graz—and Tiger. It's too much to absorb, and if ever she needed to talk to Ice, it's now.

But the only Jet inside the candy store is sitting at the counter, swinging his long legs and humming blissfully.

Velma stares at him. "Oh. Mouthpiece. It's you."

"That's me," returns the tall Jet, grinning affably at her. "Hiya, Velma."

Velma sighs. "Ice around?"

Mouthpiece spins around in his seat and appears to think about this. "Don't think so, no."

Velma sighs. Reaching for another stool, she slumps down on top of it, feeling exhausted.

"You all right, Velma?"

Velma bites her lip, wondering if Mouthpiece knows, and if so, what he thinks about it. After all, Tiger is his best friend. "Graz an' Tiger're gettin' married."

"Well, that's nice," says Mouthpiece happily. Even if he didn't know, Velma observes wryly, nothing ever seems to surprise him, anyway. "They oughta be _real_ happy together. Tiger's just crazy about Graziella. I know."

Velma sighs. She isn't exactly encouraged. "Yeah. Me, too."

"I knew she'd fall for him one day," Mouthpiece says, his wide face cheerful. "He couldn't love her so much for nothin', y'know?"

Velma glances at him. "I guess." But it doesn't work like that, she wants to say. At least, it's not supposed to. Not like this. Even if Tiger's loved Graziella all his life, that shouldn't mean that Graziella—who's never felt the same way—should love him back. An error on the side of fairness, yes, but a mistake all the same.

"Don't worry," Mouthpiece says easily. His hand clutches something invisible as he moves it along the counter and whistles. Trains, Velma realizes, stifling the urge to giggle at the incongruity of it all. Trains. The Jet is playing with imaginary trains. "Long's they love each other, they'll be happy."

That's just it, though, thinks Velma with a sigh. Even Graziella doesn't pretend that she loves Tiger, who is the only one who will ever believe she does anyway.

"I don't know," she says, watching Mouthpiece run his trains over the counter. "It's just—hard, watchin' everything change so fast. Even people I thought I knew."

Mouthpiece shrugs, and looks down at her.

"They stay the same on what's important," he says. "I guess that's all that counts."

Velma stares at him, wonders how he stays so—innocent, she thinks, for lack of a better word. How he doesn't seem to ever worry, or lose hope, when all he has is himself and his mother and the Jets. "I guess so, yeah."

At that moment, Doc shuffles through the back door and stops as he takes in the sight of Ice's girl sitting next to an oblivious Mouthpiece, whose trains seem to have just reached the depot, judging by the energetic movements of the Jet's arms.

"You all right, Velma?" Doc asks, his faded eyes sharp.

Velma half-smiles. These days, there's really nothing else she can say.

"'Course, Doc."

.

That night, Ice is stiff and shocked.

"Tiger an' Graz?" he asks, staring up at the ceiling. "I know he always had a thing for her, but I thought she wouldn't give him the time-a day!"

Velma shrugs her shoulders, feeling uneasy. "They ran into each other, a couple weeks after Riff," she says, her voice even. "Things got—complicated."

"Complicated enough to get married in a hurry?"

His voice is low and though he doesn't sound like he's judging Graziella, Velma stiffens anyway. "What's it matter? They're together, an' he really loves her, an'—" She stumbles and falls silent. Try as she might, she still can't say she thinks they'll be happy.

"It don't," he says, still on his back. "Why didn't ya tell me?" he asks her, and Velma swallows hard.

"It wasn't mine to tell," she answers. "An'—I know you've been real busy, with the Musclers, an' all. I didn't wanna worry ya."

"Oh," he says, and the silence is long and deep.

Velma reaches over, rests a hand on his shoulder. "Don't be mad at me."

"I ain't," he says. She believes his voice but not the tension in his body. "Look," he goes on, "that kid…"

Velma doesn't, can't say anything. She hasn't told him about Graziella's pregnancy, but Ice isn't an idiot and in a couple months, everyone will know anyway. So she stays mute. She lets him fill in the blanks. Even without all the pieces, this puzzle's not hard to solve.

Ice doesn't say anything to fill the silence, and after a long moment, he nods.

"Congrats, Tiger."

"Yeah," Velma whispers, more to convince herself than anything else. "Congrats to 'em both."

.

The stage is set, the players are all here, and there is just one last thing to do before Velma walks through that door.

"Are you sure?" she asks, searching Graziella's brown eyes for any hint of indecision. Velma would do anything—anything at all—to help. "Because if you're not—it ain't too late."

Graziella shrugs. "No," she says, releasing a sigh, and Velma hopes for a moment before the redhead smoothes her dress over her stomach and picks up the bouquet. Her friend is still slender but there is the suggestion of a slight swell there, a roundness that makes her look softer. Vulnerable. "No, it's too late."

Velma watches her for a moment, then nods. "Okay," she says, her voice soft. "See you up there."

And as she turns her back on her friend and begins to walk down the aisle of the church, Velma focuses on what she sees ahead of her. Friends. Family. Ice, and the unknowable future that awaits them all.


	20. the other side of silence

Disclaimer: Totally own it in my head.

Note: This is the second half of what was chapter 18 up until 3.05.11.

—viennacantabile

* * *

fell the angels

twenty : the other side of silence

.

I leaned over to cover him with the blanket he had been promising to give away to charity for years, and I kissed his forehead, as if by doing so I could protect him from the invisible threads that kept him away from me, from that tiny apartment, and from my memories, as if I believed that with that kiss I could deceive time and convince it to pass us by, to return some other day, some other life.

—Carlos Ruiz Zafón, The Shadow of the Wind

.

But it's possible, you know, to love a shadow,  
we ourselves being shadows.

—Eugenio Montale

.

Even with the distraction of Graziella's wedding and move into a tiny apartment a few blocks away, Velma hasn't been able to stop thinking about that afternoon in the playground and the things Ice has tried so hard to hide.

"Listen," she says one night, propping her head up on her elbow, "Maybe a month ago, I heard ya talkin' to Anybodys about the Musclers an' the Vipers, an' about some guy whose name ya didn't know. Who was that?" Velma asks, trying to keep her voice light.

There is silence for a moment. Then Ice rolls over, stares at the ceiling.

"Nobody," he says.

Velma isn't convinced. "If he was nobody, you wouldn't be askin'."

Ice stares up at the ceiling, the sheet twisted around him. "It's just some guy who's been hangin' around. He ain't been givin' us trouble, but I got a feelin' about him that I don't like. That's all."

Velma sighs. "Why didn't you tell me before?"

Ice shrugs. "I didn't wanna worry you over nothin'. An' it _is_ nothin'," he goes on, "nothin' at all."

"But you can tell her," she says, biting her lip. Velma knows that there's a difference—that she's not part of the gang and Anybodys is—but it still bothers her that he would tell Anybodys and not his own girlfriend.

Ice turns his head to stare at her. "Vee. Are you—you don't actually think I—"

"I don't know," she says, taking a deep breath. "But I wish you would trust me."

"It ain't about trust," Ice says, shaking his head. "It ain't—it's just it's got nothin' to do with you. That's all."

Velma reaches over and puts her hand on his shoulder. "If it's got to do with you," she says, voice firm, "it's got to do with me."

He puts his hand over his eyes, and Velma can see him fighting against some mental compulsion, something deeper and darker than all of this. "You knew who I was when you met me," he says, his voice low. "You knew I was a Jet."

She bites her lip, because she did—and then she didn't. Not really. "I didn't know it'd be like this."

"None of us did," Ice says under his breath. "But I can't do anythin' about it, not if—"

"I know ya could," Velma says, pushing just a little further, "an' if you'd just tell me maybe it'd help—"

"Quit it," Ice says, voice sharp. "C'mon, Vee, just leave it alone."

Velma stares at him. Ice has never, ever used that tone with her before, has never even come close to it and she doesn't quite know what to say or do. "I—I'm sorry," she says, stumbling over her words, feeling a new and unpleasant uncertainty settle over her. "I didn't—"

Ice looks up, and the irritated frown on his face melts into a repentant expression. "God," he says quietly, "Vee, _I'm_ sorry. I didn't mean it."

"No," she says, shaking her head and even laughing a little. "No, I know ya didn't."

And she does. But it still can't quite change the fact that it happened.

"It really is nothin'," he says in the quiet that follows. "I swear."

"Good," Velma says, her voice a little too bright even to her own ears. "Then you can stop worryin' about it, right?"

Ice half-smiles, doesn't answer. And even though they change the subject, begin talking about stupid meaningless things like school and Snowboy's latest prank, still she can feel the silence of what isn't said stretch on and on and more than ever she wonders how this will all end.

.

Velma is trying to concentrate on her math homework when her mother sits down at the kitchen table next to her.

"Vilhelmina?"

Velma glances up. Her mother's face is timid, cautious. "_Mamma_?"

Mrs. Andersen links her hands together on the table and bites her lip. "I have been thinking," she says in her usual Swedish. "And I wonder what you are going to do after graduation."

"I'm not sure," Velma says with as casual a shrug as she can manage. She has been asked this question so many times over the last year, and the answer still hasn't come to her. It still depends, still hinges on so many things, none of which she controls. She still has time, after all—almost six months, really.

Mrs. Andersen just looks at her. Finally, she opens her mouth and says a few words in English.

"Are you happy?"

Velma hides her surprise with a shrug. "I'm not—_not_ happy."

"That's not the same thing," her mother says, returning to Swedish.

Velma exhales. "Isn't it?"

"No," Mrs. Andersen says, her voice soft. "I don't think that's the same thing at all."

"Can you really do better than that nowadays, though?" Velma asks, seeing a white veil against Graziella's flaming hair, the resignation on that pale face, as if it were yesterday. "Ain't it better'n bein' sad?"

"It might be," agrees her mother, "but even so—that is what we want for you, your father and I. To be happy. Whatever that means."

And Velma rests her chin on her hands and stares off into space. "Whatever that means."

Does anyone really know? she wonders. And even if they do—does it even matter?

She doesn't even realize she's said this last thought aloud until her mother rests her hand on Velma's cheek.

"It matters," she says, her quiet voice once again in English. "It always matters."

.

"God, Vel," says Graziella, lighting her cigarette with a theatrical sigh. It's only the second week of November but this year the winter is early and in the open air of the playground, Velma can already see their breath mingling with the white smoke. Cold or not, though, it's the only place they can talk. "I can't stand him. I can't."

"He loves you," Velma offers. She knows, though, that it doesn't help, only makes Graziella despise him more. "There's that, at least."

"Then he's even more of a dumbass than I thought," Graziella sighs as she takes a deep drag on her cigarette and clutches her coat tighter around her stomach. "He's like a dog that keeps comin' back to get beat up."

As she watches the smoke spiral upwards Velma bites her lip. "Graz—y'know, I saw Midge the other day in Doc's, an' she told me somethin' about how maybe you shouldn't smoke when you're—expectin'," she says. "She said there was some new study about it this year an' it could be bad for babies."

Graziella waves her cigarette in the air. "Load-a bull, that's all it is," she says, inhaling. "My ma smoked a pack a day when she had me, an' I turned out fine."

Velma smiles in spite of herself. "Yeah, but—"

"Oh, fine," Graziella snaps, and drops the cigarette to the ground. She stares at it, twisting her hands around the chains of her swing, and Velma watches her, troubled. After a moment, she speaks again in a very different voice.

"It's so soon."

Velma knows what she means. "You've got four months."

"That's nothin'," sighs Graziella. "An' then after that—my whole life, Vel, my _whole life_ I gotta take care-a this kid. That's a long time, y'know?"

Velma isn't sure what to say, but Graziella, it seems, only needs someone to listen. "I keep thinkin' this is dumb. I don't wanna be a ma, Vel," she says. "I don't want anythin' to do with it. I hate babies. But—" Her face crumples. "Then I remember it's _his_—an' I just—I don't know," she says, her hand drifting to her abdomen. "I start to think maybe it won't be so bad."'

"It won't be," Velma assures her. "We'll all help, an' we all—"

"But you won't be its ma," says Graziella quietly. "You won't be the one who's with it all day, every day this time next year." She takes a deep breath. "You won't be the one missin' its dad so bad it hurts like you're gonna break, like you're gonna die 'cause it's all too much."

Velma says nothing. It's true, what Graziella says. After a moment she touches her hand to Graziella's arm. "You know if I can do anything—"

Graziella shrugs her off, her face unreadable once again. "I know. C'mon," she says, shaking her head and lurching to her feet. "Let's go."

As they leave the playground, Velma glances back. There on the pavement are the remnants of Graziella's cigarette, the last red-orange embers smoldering and telling the truth: no matter what Graziella says about the baby, it's what she does that counts.

"_I start to think maybe it won't be so bad."_

It will be okay, Velma tells herself, for what seems like the thousandth time, it will be okay, for Graziella and for all of them. It has to be.

.

It's the soft, involuntary grunt of pain that Velma hears first as she rounds the corner by the record store.

There is a man, there, and at his feet is a stocky dark-skinned boy curled up and lying in the snow.

It's none of her business, she knows, but for some reason, Velma looks again. And when she does, she stifles a gasp and ducks back around the corner, her heart pounding.

It's Ice.

And then she looks—not because she wants to, but because she has to. Velma has to see this, has to know that darkest part of him he keeps hidden away. She has to face the truth. And what it is…

The boy—who Velma recognizes now as a Muscler—is up now, and trying to hit back, and on maybe any other Jet, his fist would make contact, but Ice is taller and stronger and his experience gives him every advantage to the boy in the snow. He can't even get close, can't even get in a good punch or kick on the Jet captain who just steps away as if dodging a fly. Who lands a punch to the boy's gut that leaves him doubled up and gasping again.

Velma can't tear her gaze away.

It's like he said. She's known all along, she thinks, that Ice is in a gang. She's known all along that as a Jet, he fights other boys. She's known for more than a year.

But she's never seen it before.

It's the expression on his face that gets her. The fact that—while he's beating another boy, another human being into a pulp—there isn't one there. His face, his eyes, are empty. And it scares her more than anything she's ever known.

"Stay outta here," he says, and in his voice is a chill she's never heard before.

Who is he? she wonders, feeling bile rise in her throat. Who is this boy in front of her? Who is Ice and how has she never seen this part of him before? Is this what Clarice thinks he is trying to protect her from?

She doesn't need protecting, Velma thinks, staring at the man and the boy in front of her and swallowing hard. Not from this.

Ice raises his fist again, and Velma turns on her heel to leave. She has to go, has to get out of here and find someplace where all of this—any of this—makes sense because she doesn't understand anymore, if she ever did, what they are all fighting for.

.

After more than a year with the Jets and their girls Velma should be used to the sound of footsteps in the darkness, but still she's startled when the night is interrupted by a thump, and a stumble.

"Vee?"

She opens her eyes and sees only shadows and moonlight, a pause at the intersection between waking and dreams. But after more than a year—she would know that voice anywhere.

"Ice?"

And then he staggers into view and Velma's eyes widen in the gloom because as Ice drops his jacket and moves over to her bed, that loping gait of his unsteady and wavering, she can see that he is drunk.

He presses his cold mouth to hers and slides his arm around her body, works his hand up under her slip, and normally Velma is happy to go along with this kind of hello—it's more than just the liquor on his breath that's making her dizzy—but not this time. Not tonight. Ice doesn't drink that often, even with the boys, but when he does, it's not like this.

"Ice—"

"Shh," he murmurs, very close to her ear. His whisper vanishes as soon as it comes, and as she inhales Velma remembers the boy from that afternoon and wonders if she's still dreaming. "Don't talk."

Velma sits up, feeling unsettled as she pushes Ice back a few inches and tries to find his gaze. She can feel his heart sounding a skittering beat through the too-thin fabric of his shirt, and it worries her. This is too close to another night. "Ice, what's wrong?"

He leans in again, buries his face in her hair, tries again. "Nothin's wrong, not here."

Velma puts her arms around him and ignores the rising heat in her body. If something's the matter—whatever what it is, she has to know, and she can't let him distract her. "Promise me everything's okay," she says. The words fall breathless from her lips and she bites down on her tongue. She sounds like a child, and she hates it, but she can't help it. "Please."

He laughs, low and dark, and it sends a shiver down her spine. "Vee," he murmurs, "even if I did, what good would it do?"

"Stop it," she says, putting her hand on his shoulder and forcing him to meet her gaze. She can't stop seeing all the things that could have have driven him here, terrified, in the middle of the night, and in her own fear, Velma gives him a little shake. "You're scarin' me, Ice, stop it."

He looks at her, pale eyes dull and colorless in the shadows cast by the moon, and she sees him pause, take a deep breath, exhale.

"Sorry," Ice whispers. "It's nothin'."

Something flickers in his gaze, but before Velma can see what, his eyelids close and his muscles relax and he sinks down onto the bed. He stretches his arms out over his face and in another moment, he is carved from stone, still and silent. Gone.

Velma stares at him, her breath coming in short, shallow gasps. If she didn't know better, she would have thought he'd been there all along, sleeping. She should be relieved, she thinks, that he is not speaking in that slow fatal voice anymore, that silent or not, he is Ice again. She should, she thinks, leave him alone.

But somehow this absolute quiet is even worse, and she has to stop it.

She touches his arm, and as he flinches at the contact, Velma bites the inside of her lip and tastes the faint bitterness of iron. It hurts her that any part of him would draw back from her, even after that afternoon, but that is not important right now.

"Ice," she murmurs, "what's wrong?"

He is silent for so long that she doesn't think he is going to answer. And Velma thinks of the time that has passed. The exhaustion written in every line of his body. The blankness in his eyes. Riff, Tony, and Bernardo are five months gone and still it hasn't gotten better.

"Please," she whispers, hardly daring to move as she waits, perched on the edge of hopelessness. Talk to me, she wants so badly to say, to make him hear. Let me in. Please.

And then, finally:

"I miss 'em," he says, arm still slung over his eyes. She can barely hear his voice, flat and toneless as it is. "I really do."

Velma leans forward, rests her hand on his shoulder once more. And here it is, she thinks, feeling that familiar sadness pass from his body to hers, what he never, ever forgets. "Ice—"

"I can't be the goddamn leader, Vee," Ice goes on in that same quiet, dead tone. "I can't. Ain't what I signed up for when I joined. Tony an' Riff. Them was the leaders. Not me."

Velma shifts to lie down as close as she can and puts her arm around him. "I know," she tells him, wanting him to understand. None of them ever expected any of this. "But—even if it ain't what you wanted—you're doin' a good job," she says, keeping her voice soft and pushing the knowledge of how he's done it away from them. "Thanks to you, the Jets've stayed outta trouble an' in one piece. I don't know who else coulda done it."

"It was their gang," he says, and in the darkness he sounds young, younger even than Baby John. "Tony an' Riff's. I can't just let it fall apart, not when they're—"

"They'd be real proud-a ya," Velma tells him when he stops, unable to say the words. She knows it's true. Ice had been third-in-command, after Tony and Riff, and even if he wasn't quite part of their double captaincy they'd have trusted him with the Jets. Had. "But Ice—they wouldn't want ya to tear yourself up about alla this, y'know."

She sees him swallow, the muscles in his throat working. "They wouldn't want me to forget 'em, neither." He lets out a bitter laugh. "Not that there's much chance-a that. I can't get it outta my head."

"Maybe not, but they wouldn't want ya to feel so awful, neither. It's okay, y'know," she tells him quietly. She has a pretty good idea of what he is talking about. Even if Velma hadn't seen Riff die, she still remembers Tony, eyes closed, body shuddering into slack stillness under a pool of white light. And Ice—Ice had been there to see both his best friends murdered. It's no wonder that the weight of it is still with him. "To be okay. To be happy, even. It's what they'd want."

"But they ain't here," Ice says, voice muffled. She has never heard him sound so hopeless before. "An' nothin's right without 'em. Nothin'."

Velma takes a deep breath. She doesn't want to say what he couldn't—since that night, they've all avoided it as much as possible—but for his own sake, she has to.

"Riff and Tony're dead, Ice," she whispers, holding him tighter. "But you're not. Don't crawl in the grave with 'em."

He makes a small, choking noise. "God," he murmurs, bringing his arm back down to his side. She doesn't know what she was expecting but his eyes are open, staring, dry. If she were only looking she'd never know he was anything but the cool, confident leader of the Jets. "How the hell did this happen?"

Velma stays quiet, leaning her face against the soft, worn fabric of his shirt. She can feel his body shuddering, gasping for air, and she wants so badly to help him.

"It'll be okay," she says, resting her hand on his hair. "I promise. It'll be okay."

He takes one last breath before turning to her and burying his face in her throat. And then his hands are moving over her once more and his kisses are urgent, desperate, a wordless plea he can't voice—_tell me again_—and Velma, hearing him, wraps her arms around him and responds, fighting back the tears he can't shed, because holding him, keeping him safe from all that comes for them in the night, is the only thing she can do for him right now.

Later when he is asleep, she gazes at his hand, clasped with hers. It's the same tanned, callused hand as always. But now that she knows what it can do—what it _has_ done…

"Riff," he murmurs in his sleep. "Tony. Vee."

Velma stares at him, doesn't move. "I love you," she says aloud. He could be the worst person in the world—a thief, murderer, it doesn't matter—and it would still be the one truth she can't escape. She glances back down at their joined hands and thinks of the vows from Graziella's wedding. _For better, for worse._

"An' you love me," she says, quieter this time. Ice, swallowed up in the darkness, doesn't hear, but it doesn't matter. As long as they have that— "That's all that matters."

.

The next time Velma sees the captain of the Jets alone, he is just outside her apartment door on Thanksgiving afternoon, looking as uncomfortable in a jacket and tie as he always does. His mother is with him, and as Mary Kelly moves into the apartment to greet the Andersen family, Ice catches her hand. "Vee, wait."

Velma glances back at him. "What?"

Ice looks uncomfortable, the toe of one shoe worrying the other. "There's somethin' I wanted to talk about."

Velma, eyeing him, steps into the hall and shuts the door behind her. "What?"

He won't look at her. "Well, you know with all the stuff that's been happenin'—the Musclers, an' then those little Viper kids, I thought maybe we—"

Velma's eyes narrow as she sense where he is not, can not be going. "You thought what?"

He sighs. "I thought—everything's comin' all at once, an' I ain't myself right now, an'—maybe—" His voice falls. "Maybe we oughta cool it a little."

"What?" she asks, feeling her heartbeat stumble, skip a beat. "Ice, what the hell are you—"

"Just for a little while," he says. "'Til things get better."

Velma takes a deep breath and tries to keep her voice level. "Y'know, every time a guy says that to his girl in the movies he really means he don't want her anymore. If it's that, just say so."

"No," he says vehemently. "That ain't it at all, Vee—I just—don't think it's a good time right now."

"Ice," she says, "look at me."

He avoids her gaze, and Velma reaches up to turn his face forward. "_Look at me_."

At last his unwilling eyes meet hers. "I'm lookin'," he sighs.

Velma takes a step forward. "What d'ya see?"

He shrugs. "I see you."

"Do ya?" she asks, watching him. She sees his pale eyes, clenched fist, a few drops of someone else's blood in the snow and still she doesn't care. "Because I'm _right here_. An' I ain't runnin'."

She takes his hands. His skin is freezing cold and he isn't looking at her anymore.

"Look, I just thought—"

"No," Velma says, voice like steel, "no. I know you're tryin' to do the right thing here, Ice, but trust me: this ain't it."

Ice's shoulders sag. "Vee…"

"I don't care," she says, shaking her head. "You need me. An' I need you. An' if you expect me to just sit back and let you act like that ain't true, you're a lot dumber than I thought."

He stares at her, pale eyes conflicted. "Look," he finally says, "yeah. I do. But—"

"No buts," Velma says firmly. "You're not gettin' rid-a me _that_ easy, buddy-boy."

Ice closes his eyes for a long minute. When he opens them, he looks straight at her and nods slowly. "Okay," he says, sounding resigned. "As long as it's what's best for ya."

Velma wraps her arms around his neck. "_You're_ what's best for me, Ice," she says softly, settling into him. "Don't _ever_ think otherwise."

He says nothing, just holds onto her like a drowning man in the middle of the sea. And after a long moment, he pulls back. "We better get in there," he says, sounding closer to himself than before. "Let's go."

Velma smiles. "You go," she says, opening the door for him. "I'll be right in, okay?"

Ice glances at her, but does as she says. It's not until the door is safely shut behind him that she lets herself take deep, desperate gasps of air, because the one thing she is afraid of is losing him, and if he is the one to break them, then that will be worst of all.

Please don't, she thinks, terrified as her hand reaches up to clutch at her mouth. She can't breathe, can't move. Please. Please don't.

She stays outside for five minutes until her breathing has steadied and she can say and act everything that she doesn't feel. When at last she comes back inside the apartment, her father smiles at her. "Happy Thanksgiving, Vilhe," he says.

Velma's gaze runs over the room. Her father, her mother. Peter and Chris. Mrs. Kelly. Ice. And underneath it all, the uncertainty of whether this will all look the same next year.

"Yeah," she says, swallowing hard and giving him a smile in return. "Happy Thanksgiving."


	21. the sun in flight

Disclaimer: I don't own WSS, but I like to think I'm renting it. :)

Note: So if you've been following fta, you may or may not have noticed that the length of the two most recent chapters has been a little excessive. When I finished chapter 19 and it was over 10,000 words, I figured enough was enough and decided to split it, and the last two chapters, up. Which is why we're suddenly on chapter 21, haha. In any case, I don't think that this will make the fic any longer, as I don't foresee any future chapters needing this much space. (Though that's also what I thought before I wrote the former 17-19, so take that with a grain of salt.) Also, the next update will be timely, for once. :) Finally—there's a racial slur in here that I don't particularly approve of, but the character insisted, so I apologize in advance.

For: Sergei Prokofiev, and his _Romeo and Juliet _Suites. :)

Hope you enjoy—please let me know if anything confuses/frustrates/clobbers you!

—viennacantabile

* * *

fell the angels

twenty-one : the sun in flight

.

She's waiting up for me, trying to make sense of it all. I think she's afraid because she already knows she's lost me. Women can sense those things.

—Anna Gavalda, "Lead Story," I Wish Someone Were Waiting for Me Somewhere

.

"Who're you?"

It's the second time he's asked the boy who's just stepped out of the nearest alley, but now, as before, the tall blond ignores him and jerks his head in the direction that the skinny little Shark kid—for the life of him, Ice still can't remember his name—ran off in. And Ice wonders how long he's been standing there, how much of his encounter with the Shark this boy has heard. Enough, it seems, to comment on Ice letting the kid go.

"That was generous of you," the blond repeats. "But, maybe not the best thing to do. He might come back with his friends, you know. Better to just—" He makes a slashing motion with his hand.

Ice stares at him, squinting through the glare of the sun. He has no idea who this is, but he can't be from around here, because the way he talks sounds just like—

"You Soviet or somethin'?"

And again, the boy—almost a man, really, from his height and build—ignores him. "You don't worry that they will think you are weak?"

The Jet captain stiffens. "We got an understandin'. Not that it's any-a your business."

"I see," says the boy, whose curious expression doesn't change. He doesn't look like anyone Ice has ever seen before—even in this heat, he's wearing head-to-toe black.

Finally, Ice is fed up. "Look, who the hell are ya?"

And at last, the boy gives a slow smile that doesn't reach his eyes. The hot summer light is fading now and half his face is in shadow. "No one."

No one.

"Stay that way," he says, and wakes up.

As always, it takes him a few minutes to realize where—home—and when—early morning on the last day of November 1957—he is. This time, though, it's easier to connect the walls and the ceiling with consciousness, because this memory is not that unending blackness, that absence of sense he has visited every night for almost half a year. This is not the nightmare that steals his dreams. This is not the fear he knows. This is something new.

Since August, Ice has seen the boy a few more times in back alleys and dark corners, but he knows no more about the Soviet than he did then. The guy doesn't say much, if anything, and he never interferes with Jet business, so in all likelihood, he's just some kid who wants in the gang, like so many used to. But still, he bothers Ice. All his life he's had to trust his intuition, and what he knows now is that every instinct in his body is telling him that this boy—the one who never quite speaks, just lets that slow confident smile say everything he wants to as he watches them fight against the cops and the Musclers and the whole damn city—is trouble.

And Ice doesn't have time for any more problems. There will be a war council, any day now, and he is consumed by the idea that this—this struggle against the Musclers—is nothing but some sick joke, dreamed up by whoever it is who decides where you end up in the world, and that they're all headed back to last June, and if they are—

Well, who's going to be the one who bites it this time, is what Ice can't keep himself from wondering.

As many times as he's gone over it in his head, there just doesn't seem to be a way to stop this. The Jets can't back down, and the Musclers won't, unless they're made to. And the only way to do that…

Ice stares at the hairline cracks in his ceiling and wonders how long everything can hold. A rumble. It all comes back to that.

Ice stays motionless for a few more minutes, then eases out of bed, mindful of the weak light filtering in through his window. The day will begin in less than an hour and there is no chance of sleeping now.

.

He can't remember if last winter was this cold, but either way, Ice can't stop shivering as he runs through the pale empty streets that night. The cold air is tight and frostbitten in his lungs and it's like he can't breathe. He is sluggish, slow, and wishes he could get the chill out of his bones. But even considering where he's headed, there doesn't seem to be a big chance of that.

When he gets there, Velma is waiting. Ice, halfway through the window, stops. She's got a candle on the cake burning in the darkness, casting a dim glow on her face.

"It's past midnight," she says. "Happy birthday."

He stares at her for a moment before the draft reminds him to bring the rest of his body inside and shut the window. "You remembered."

She smiles. "'Course I did."

He shrugs. "I didn't."

"Well, that's different," she says quietly, and moves over to slip the coat from his shoulders. "You've got a lot on your mind."

"Yeah," he says as he watches her gaze flit over him, checking for bumps, scratches, bruises, blood, before rising to meet his again. She doesn't think he notices but he sees her do it every time. "I guess I do."

"Anyway, that's what I'm for," she says quickly. "To remember everything for you."

He swallows, a million thoughts running through his head at once. "Everything?"

Velma's expression flickers, and he can't read her face. "Make a wish," she says after a moment, blue eyes on his.

He shakes his head. "I don't know what to wish for."

"Yeah you do," she says with a smile. "Wish for what you want."

What does he want? he wonders. He stares, unseeing, for a moment. As if anyone ever knows the answer to that question. Some wishes really are impossible and some dreams never do come true. And some are hopeless to begin with. He sighs. "What do I want."

Velma gazes at him, doesn't say anything. And Ice thinks about the weight of things, about how it's so heavy that sometimes it's hard to breathe. And what it would be like, without it.

Finally, he leans forward and blows the candle out, leaving them in darkness.

"There, now," she says, "see? That wasn't so hard."

He leans forward and kisses her and as they sink down in the darkness he wonders if it even matters at all. He is twenty years old today, and this year doesn't look any better than the last.

(And even if he wishes as hard as he can with everything in him, he won't get what he really wants. No one ever does, in the end.)

.

Safety in numbers, Ice thinks as he leads Big Deal, Action, Snowboy, Tiger, Mouthpiece, and A-Rab through the back door of Haley's Barbershop two weeks later. It's not unlike that day back in August, when the Musclers paid them a call in Doc's. But that was just a friendly little declaration of hostilities. This, Ice knows, is the real thing.

Eight heads snap up at their entry, and Ice, taking a quick look around the room, is relieved. They are outnumbered, yes, but the most important Muscler in the room is Basher, who is huge but harmless without his cousin Tank to give him orders. The rest are a couple older ones and a crowd of rank-and-file. Tank and his lieutenant, Bullet, are nowhere to be seen.

There is a silence as the Musclers trade glances, apparently trying to decide who will speak for them in their captain's absence. A tall, skinny kid Ice recognizes as Motormouth evidently wins the job and stands up.

"Yeah?"

"Don't act so friendly," sneers A-Rab, "we're just here on business."

Ice gives him a look. "Yeah," he says, turning back to Motormouth. "Where's Tank?"

"Not here," volunteers Basher. "He's out at our grandma's til mornin'."

It's Motormouth's turn to deliver a look now. "He ain't here, we'll leave it at that," he rattles off. "Ya got a message for him?"

"You knew this was comin'," says Ice in a cool voice. "You're trampin' all over our territory; you musta known we wouldn't just take it. So yeah, I got a message for him: war council. Him, an' a couple-a you kids, an' me an' mine. Now," he says, his gaze sweeping over the room, "this don't exactly qualify as neutral territory. So I say midnight, tomorrow, at The Coffee Pot."

"That place that used to be swarmin' with all the PRs?" snorts Motormouth.

"That one," says Ice. "It ain't ours, it ain't yours. It's still neutral." He pauses, and raises an eyebrow. "Think you can handle that?"

Motormouth's white teeth flash against his dark skin. "We'll be there."

"Good," nods Ice. He takes one last look around at the group of Musclers, then at the Jets behind him, and jerks his head toward the door. "Let's go."

.

Later that evening, Ice detaches himself from the crowd of pumped-up, trash-talking, dart-throwing Jets and heads off into the night. It's six hours after the challenge and Ice is aching for a cigarette but he holds the hunger in check. He needs to think, and to think, he needs to be calm. In control of his own body. It's just a smoke, he thinks, taking his lighter out. He leaves the cigarette unlit. He can go without it, right?

It's a habit that's formed over the last few months or so: sometimes, without even realizing it, Ice takes his lighter from his pocket, opens the lid, flicks the catch, and watches as it sputters to life. It's so bright in the darkness, a small, slight flame that flickers but never fails. Almost hypnotic.

(He remembers that night, and the uncertainty of waiting, the most, he thinks.)

He flicks it up with that small _chk_, gazes at the flame for a moment, and flips the lid down to sudden darkness again. Up, down. Light, shadow. Click, _chk_, click. Over and over again. But still the image burns in his mind.

It's then, while he's leaning up against the wall of the playground, cigarette dangling from one hand and his eyes locked on the flame, that he hears it.

"Can I have a light?"

He stares. "What?"

It's that big blond Soviet, standing in front of him. "For my cigarette."

"Yeah, sure," says Ice, extending his hand and transferring his wary gaze to the boy who leans forward and, once the tip glows red, takes a deep breath and exhales smoke.

They stand there in almost companionable quiet for awhile, the cigarette in Ice's hand still dark. He wants it more than ever, but now, with this strange boy watching, he refuses to give in.

"So you're Soviet, huh?" says Ice, not really expecting an answer. It's so odd, being the one who fills up the silence, that he wonders if this is how the Jets used to feel around him.

But as ever, the boy ignores him and takes another drag. "Don't you want one?"

Ice lifts his up and shrugs. "'Course."

"Then why don't you have it?" asks the boy. He closes his eyes, inhales, and Ice watches as smoke drifts off into the sky.

He's not really sure himself—maybe just stubbornness—but he doesn't have any other answer. "Can't always get what we want."

At this, the boy turns. "Can't we? If you want something—if it is _there_—why don't you take it?"

Ice stares at him, eyes narrowed. "What d'_you_ want?"

The boy's expression doesn't change, and again, Ice wonders whether this, too, is familiar to the Jets. He tosses the cigarette to the concrete, stubs it out with his toe. "Thanks for the light."

Ice can't help himself. "Who'd ya say ya were?" he calls. He's not really expecting an answer, and he isn't disappointed.

The boy doesn't even turn around. "No one," he replies, as always, and in another moment he's out of sight.

"Yeah, well, for no one, you seem an awful lot like you're tryin' to be someone," Ice mutters to himself. He sighs, and in one swift motion, brings his cigarette up to the lighter, to his lips, and breathes in deep. To hell with willpower. It's not getting him anywhere, anyway.

Though it's the strangest thing, a small distant part of him observes. Even with the cigarette, he doesn't seem to feel any better at all.

.

Ice toys with the idea of not telling her. Not lying, exactly, just glossing over the fact that there will have to be another fight, and that they will be deciding who, and where, and how. He knows Velma will be upset, either way, but what's pushing him toward not mentioning it is that when she finds out, the meeting will have already happened and there'll be no reason to worry. At least not that night.

As it turns out, though, Ice doesn't have to tell her anything at all because the war council never happens.

"I still can't believe they didn't show," grouses Action the next morning, sweeping a box of Red Hots from the counter in disgust. "Even a buncha lousy moulies like them oughta done that!"

"Hey!" Baby John protests, albeit in a soft voice, as he begins to pick up Doc's candy. A-Rab, maybe to distract an already reddening Action, snorts.

"_I_ can. They're just some spooks as got scared off when it came time to play in the big leagues, huh?"

"Yeah, we sure spooked _them_," chuckles Mouthpiece. He waves his arm toward the winter night outside the candy store. "Maybe they was scared-a the dark!"

A-Rab rolls his eyes. "That ain't what I—"

"Right, so whadda we do, Daddy-O?" asks Big Deal, turning toward his captain. "You want we should find 'em, make 'em pay?"

Ice considers this, then shakes his head. "Not yet. Could be they've got somethin' up their sleeve, an' we don't wanna make it easy for 'em if that's it. Keep goin' in twos, threes, okay? We'll souse 'em out."

Across the store, heads nod, and after a couple minutes more, the Jets unwind a little, go back to their default activities of checkers, darts, and cards. Ice, though, glances at Big Deal, who takes the hint and follows him over to the magazine rack.

"Funny, ain't it," says the lieutenant, keeping his voice low as he thumbs through an old issue of _Sports Illustrated_. "Them not showin' up. Whaddaya make of it?"

Ice, keeping one eye on the other Jets, picks up his own copy of _LIFE_ and shrugs. "Got me. Maybe they're tryin' to throw us. Catch us off guard later, or somethin'. But whatever they're doin', it don't bother us, okay?"

Big Deal gives him a sideways look. "It don't?"

Ice shakes his head. "No. We leave 'em alone, act like we don't care—they get antsy, they step wrong, an' we get 'em."

Big Deal turns a page. "Easy as that, huh?"

Ice, both relieved and just a little bit anxious about this new development, replaces his magazine on the rack and nods. "That's the idea, anyway."

The lieutenant follows suit and grins at him. "Great," he says. "How 'bout a game-a basketball, then? Clarice ain't gonna be lookin' for me for awhile an' there's gotta be a couple midgets with a ball between 'em down at the playground."

Ice shrugs. "Sure."

In theory, he's right, thinks Ice as he picks his jacket up and follows Big Deal out the door. He's pretty sure the Musclers are just trying to scare them, push them off balance or something—after all, they're itching for a rumble almost as much as Action is. So there's no way they can stay out of sight for long, especially if the Jets just ignore them. And when they show up again, the Jets will have the advantage. Assuming everything goes to plan.

And unbidden, he hears Doc's voice.

"_Anytime it sounds that simple, it usually ain't."_

This is different, his mind argues back. But it's not any more convincing now than it was back then.

.

A day later, Ice is on his way to the candy store when a squad car pulls up and Krupke gets out, his feet crunching the snow into powder.

"Into the car," he growls. "Now."

Ice isn't exactly sure what it is this time, but it's never just tea and cookies at the stationhouse and he'd bet his captaincy it isn't now, either. His foot edges backwards, and he wonders if he could just leave. Dodge the cop, get out of here, go home.

"I got your address outta your police record, buddy," says Krupke, smacking his nightstick against his palm, "so don't even think about it."

Ice sighs. In the end, he figures, ducking into the backseat, there's really no point, and he'll only look guilty of whatever it is they want him for if he runs. Better to get in there, snow them the best that he can, and get out.

When he's deposited at the desk it's his favorite police detective who's sitting across from him. And he looks just as happy to see Ice as the Jet captain is to see him.

"Blades?" Schrank wants to know, his gaze hard. "Son of a bitch, Ice, ain't ya learned from last time?" His face twists. "Four kids in the hospital, one almost dead—now, you know I ain't no fan of them nigger-apes, but I got a helluva fight to tell headquarters about."

Ice doesn't have to feign surprise. "What're ya talkin' about?"

"Don't gimme that," sneers Schrank. "So you'n the Jets ran the jungle bunnies outta town an' sliced 'em up good. Never thought you'd be ashamed to admit it."

Ice frowns. "The Musclers?"

"Yeah, the Musclers," spits Schrank. "The ones that got clobbered down behind Haley's Barbershop. The ones as was thick around here til two days ago an' ain't anymore." He glares at Ice, his gaze suspicious. "The ones _you_ Jets were tanglin' with up until then."

And for once in his life, Ice has no idea what rumble the police officer is talking about it. He hasn't seen anything of Tank and his crew for a few days. Not since the agreement for the war council that never happened.

_Blades_.

If there is any gang less likely to mess around with those nowadays, he thinks, it's the Jets. And if any of them had done as big a number on the Musclers as Schrank is talking about, it wouldn't be a secret. So it couldn't have been the Jets, he thinks, puzzled, but if not them, who?

Schrank slams his hands down onto the table with a rattle, and if Ice weren't so used to keeping control of himself, he'd have jumped. "C'mon," growls the lieutenant. "Give up, punk, I know it was you Jets. Who else likes messin' around with knives an' stickin' 'em in people, huh? You're in the _habit_ now, that it? Just can't quit, can ya?"

Ice's eyes flash up to the police officer. Just in time, he sees Schrank lean forward, just a little bit, eager for a confession. It takes everything in him to stay in his seat, keep his voice even, detached, and tell the truth.

"I got nothin' for ya, Lieutenant. We didn't do it."

Schrank holds his gaze for a full minute. Ice, leaning back in his chair, keeps his face blank, watching as the police officer narrows his eyes, as if willing him to admit his guilt. But Ice keeps quiet, and the silence stretches on.

"Watch yer step," the lieutenant finally snarls, "'cause I will be. An' if I can pin anythin' on you, you can bet I _will_."

Ice stares at him. "Yeah," he says. Schrank, at least, will never change. "Good luck with that."

.

The next time he sees their resident shadow, he holds her back. "Kid."

"Yeah, Daddy-O?" asks Anybodys, her face eager. "Whaddaya want?"

"Look, I know I said leave 'em alone, but see if you can figure out what those Musclers are up to," says Ice. "I still ain't seen them around in the last coupla days an' I wanna know what they're up to." He remembers Schrank's words and frowns. "Or if they're even around anymore."

"You think they wised up, then?" asks Anybodys, excited. "I just bet they did, Ice, I bet they're runnin' back to Harlem with their sorry tails between their legs!"

"Maybe," Ice says, his eyebrows knitting. He doesn't want to tell her what he's heard just yet—he wants to see what she digs up on her own. "But whatever it is, I want you to find out."

.

In the end, though, it's Ice who gets one last look at the Musclers.

It's just a glimpse, but it makes Ice as uneasy as if he'd seen the whole gang loaded up with zip guns and nightsticks and God knows what else. He's crossing the border between Jet and neutral territory several days later when he catches a dark blur in the corner of his vision. Ice tenses, whips around, ready for confrontation. But nothing comes. All he sees is a Muscler, who hasn't noticed him.

But Ice, who knows Tank's face very well by now, almost shouts because there, running up the right side of the boy's cheek and meeting two curved lines over forehead and across the bridge of the nose, under the eyes, is a bright, fresh scar only a few days old.

It's bad. Ice isn't an expert on this kind of thing—his theory has always been that it's better to avoid the hit if he can—but still. It's bad. The Muscler is lucky not to have been blinded. And for it to be _Tank_—the leader, the best fighter they've got—

_Blades?_

Ice, hearing Schrank's voice in his head, flinches. It sure looks like it.

_Four kids in the hospital—one almost dead—_

He's still positive it wasn't the Jets. But now the question reoccurs to him with increasing urgency: if not them, who?

.

He gets one last confirmation of the state of things when Anybodys finds him two alleys from Velma's.

"Ice, I been lookin' for ya everywhere," she pants, skidding to a stop. "I been spyin' around, runnin' through enemy territory—"

"What d'ya got?" asks Ice, who is used to Anybodys' showmanship by now. "Where are they?"

The grin on Anybodys's face disappears, to be replaced by a troubled frown. "Dunno," she says, her small face pinched. "I heard things—awful things, like one-a them havin' a smile carved into his face an' another with all his bones broken, but no one's gotten a look to say yes or no. They're just gone. Like that. Can't scare 'em up or nothin'. They ain't nowhere."

Ice frowns. He's come to depend on Anybodys as a spy—she isn't lying about the wind through a fence thing—and if she can't sniff them out, that says something. "Yeah, well," he says, picking his words with care, "let it go. We got enough to worry about."

Anybodys wrinkles her nose. "Couldn't even find no one who'd talk about 'em. Even the little kids, they all just shut up about it."

For the hundredth time, Ice remembers Schrank's words. _Four kids in the hospital. One almost dead_. Yeah, he thinks slowly, that'd shake up anyone who knew them. But still, he doesn't want to let her or any of the gang know what he's seen. Not yet. "Probably scared 'cause you're a Jet," he says, keeping his voice light. "Good work."

The pinched look on her face relaxes, and she even pops a candy into her mouth and works at it as she gives him a tiny grin. "Gee, Ice, where d'ya think they went?"

Ice says nothing, just remembers an enigmatic smile and stares at a wall. "I dunno," he finally says. "But they're gone now."

.

That night, Velma's face is happier than he's seen it in months. "So they gave up? That's a relief."

"Yeah," nods Ice, because even if he's got his doubts about the whole thing, there's no reason to bother her about it, too. "It is."

"I'da been real worried. If there was another rumble," she says, and despite her confirmation of his resolve not to mention his friendly visit with Schrank and the sight of Tank's new face, Ice almost cracks. That there isn't going to be one is almost worse, because of the reason, and what it might mean for all of them. But instead, he just nods again.

"Me, too."

"Things'll get better now, you'll see," she says, resting her head comfortably on his shoulder. "I know they will."

And even when he closes his eyes, he can still see those long, fresh, curved scars running over dark eyelids and meeting another, straight down one torn cheek. Another image to add to his nightmares. "Yeah."

.

The Jets' reactions are mixed, to say the least.

Action knocks his chair over. "The _fuck_?" This time, both Baby John and Mouthpiece cast reproving glances at him, but the raging boy doesn't even notice. "What the hell d'ya mean, they're gone for good?"

"Just what I said," Ice says, eyeing him. "They're out. Gone. Ran back to Harlem or somethin'—who cares, really—but anyway, they ain't here."

"Gee, an' I was so eager to try out my new brass knuckles," Snowboy says with a cheerful snicker, trading a high-five with Joyboy.

A-Rab cackles. "Aww, c'mon, Action, it ain't like there ain't still kids to beat on."

"Like them Vipers, right?" pipes up Baby John. "Just the other day I saw Mopsy an' Rattle throwin' tomatoes at Mouthpiece. Didn't they, Mouthpiece?"

"They did," a helpful Mouthpiece supplies. "They sure tasted good."

Action rolls his eyes. "Forget us beatin' on them, ain't _they_ the ones beatin' on _you_? Forgettin' the trash can they dumped ya in, are ya?"

"I gave as good as I got!" blusters a red-faced Baby John.

"Aww, sure ya did," snaps Anybodys. "I just hadda pull 'em offa ya, that's all!"

As he listens to the Jets bicker and trade insults, Ice feels a little relieved. On the whole, they're taking it better than he'd thought they would. Thank God for the Vipers, he thinks with a half-smile. Without them, he doesn't know how the Jets would get over their disappointment.

He waits until they've gone before he pulls Anybodys back. "Kid."

"Yeah, Daddy-O?" asks the girl, her face eager. "Whaddaya want?"

"Get me more on those Vipers, okay?"

The girl's face twists. "Aww, Ice, I already scouted 'em out, remember?" she says, sounding almost hurt. "They ain't nothin' but a buncha kids slappin' paint on their faces an' playin' at bein' a _real_ gang. Not like the Jets." And just like that, she is back to happy pride, and Ice, looking at her, sees how young she really is and wonders when she will stumble across the thought that keeps occurring more and more as the weeks go by. So were they, before the night that changed everything. So were they.

"Yeah, I know," he says, "I just wanna make sure, is all. People're diggin' around an' we can't be too careful."

Anybodys shrugs, though the long-suffering expression on her face says she still doesn't see the point. "Sure, boss. Whatever ya say." And she makes as if to scamper off before he catches her arm.

"One last thing," he says. "Remember that guy I asked you about a couple months ago?"

For the first time, Anybodys looks nervous. "I swear I been lookin'," she says, "but I ain't got nothin'. This guy's invisible. I ain't even seen his shadow, an' I've been keepin' an eye out special."

Ice frowns, thinking. He does see the difficulty in searching blind with what little information he's given her. "Try this," he says at last. "He's a Soviet."

The girl's eyes widen. "One-a them Commies? What's he doin' around here?"

"That's what I wanna know," Ice says, "an' what I'm countin' on _you_ to find out, okay? I wouldn't ask nobody else."

Anybodys reddens a little. "Sure thing, Daddy-O," she says, a determined glint in her eyes. "You can count on me!"

.

"You're late."

Ice, dropping into his room, glances over to the door where his mother stands waiting. "I know," he says. The small room is so different from the vast empty streets he has just left that it takes him a blink, and a moment, to adjust.

"Ye did say ye'd be home earlier tonight," she reminds him, crossing over to him and putting a hand on his arm. For the first time in awhile, Ice is struck by the difference in their height, how he towers over her. From where he stands, she's almost—small. "I've been that worried, thinkin' ye'd been hurt, or somethin'."

"I'm fine," Ice tells her. "An' I'm sorry I'm late. I just—got real caught up in a game-a checkers Joyboy an' Snowboy was playin'." It's a terrible lie, even for his low standards, and his mother doesn't even pretend that she believes it.

"Look at ye. You're exhausted," she says, concern flickering in her eyes. "When was the last time ye had a good night's rest, then? Ye shouldn't be runnin' in and out like this."

Ice shrugs. "I'm fine."

"Look, I know you're still hurtin' over Riff, and Tony," she says, and Ice shifts his weight. This is not something he wants to discuss. "I know I'm just your old mother, John, but if ye need to talk about it, well—"

The love, the knowledge in her voice is almost more than he can take. "I don't wanna talk," he snaps, "okay? Talkin' don't help nothin'."

Ice sighs as he sees the hurt in her eyes. He knows she means well. He knows she is just being a mother. He knows all of that and still he is unable to say what he really means: he would talk if it helped. But what is he supposed to tell her? Two of his best friends are dead. He has ten guys looking at him, asking him to tell them what to do when he doesn't know any better than they do. He has a girlfriend who waits and waits and who Ice is afraid will someday get tired of waiting and bolt, like she should have done ages ago, and even if she doesn't that's somehow even worse. And he has a mother who, Ice is starting to wonder, might know a little bit more about her son than he thought.

"Look, Ma," he says, reaching a heavy hand over to her. "I'm sorry."

Mrs. Kelly gazes at him, her eyes troubled. "I just wish ye could get everythin' out of ye, John. It's eatin' ye up inside; I can see it."

"I'm fine," he says. No matter how many times he says it, it doesn't sound any more true. Maybe if he believes hard enough—

His mother shakes her head. "No," she says. "You're not. And if I'd done a better job of bein' your mother, you wouldn' be in this state."

Ice shakes his head, disturbed. "Ma, don't talk like that. It's got nothin' to do with you."

His mother just looks at him with a sad smile. "Not from where I'm standing."

Ice sighs. "I'm goin' to bed," he says, dropping a kiss on her forehead. Glancing down at his wrist, he can just barely make out the time. 12:42 AM. "Merry Christmas, Ma."

Mrs. Kelly reaches out and strokes his cheek, her faded eyes resigned. "Merry Christmas, John."

.

Velma's present to him is a watch—a nice one, with gold links and a solid weight to it.

"Thanks," he says, turning it over before Velma takes it from him and gently fastens it around his wrist. "It's really—it's really somethin', Vee."

"I wanted ya to have one that was really yours," she says with a little smile. "_Just_ yours."

At the moment it doesn't quite feel all that different, wearing one that hasn't been lifted off some drunk, but he can tell that it makes Velma happy. There's not that much he can do nowadays that does, so he smiles.

"Thanks," he repeats, and kisses her on the cheek. She really loves him, he thinks. The thought isn't a good one, or a bad one. Just as much as he loves her.

Velma leans in to fiddle with the dial on the side. "Lemme fix it to the right time," she says. "I dunno why they never do it before you get it. Seems kinda stupid to me."

And as he watches her wind the hands of the watch into position, he thinks of the Christmas before, and how everything that seemed so important then is gone now. He has three things left: the Jets, his mother, and Velma. In theory, that's all he should need.

So maybe it'll be okay, like they all say, Ice thinks without hope. Maybe.


	22. chasing the dragon

Disclaimer: If I owned WSS, I'd probably have asked Arthur Laurents to think a little more before adding quite so much Spanish into the revival. And also I'd be wearing Anita's revival dress because it is fantastic. However, Vlad would still belong to **LCV Productions**, haha. ;)

Note: So I totally lied: there should be 30 chapters if all goes well, heh. Am not entirely sure when the next chapter will go up, but I'm hard at work on it. :)

Hope you enjoy—any and all constructive feedback is treasured. :)

—viennacantabile

* * *

fell the angels

twenty-two : chasing the dragon

.

You do anything long enough to escape the habit of living until the escape becomes the habit.

—David Ryan

.

…and I felt as though I were trapped somewhere outside my life and the war, in some other place where nothing really existed, from which I would never escape.

—Sébastien Japrisot, A Very Long Engagement

.

"So," says Ice a few days after Christmas. "What d'ya got?"

"It's like we thought—them Vipers, they're just some ragtag bunch as wants to make a rep for 'emselves," Anybodys says, scorn coloring her voice. "Not nowhere near a real gang—even their names is stupid." She snorts. "Ain't nobody gonna drop dead from some kid callin' himself Mopsy or Squeak."

Ice laughs—he has to agree with her. "Numbers?"

"'Bout a dozen," answers Anybodys. "But it ain't a problem. They're all scrawny an' not much to look at, 'sides that stupid red an' green war-paint they got all over their faces. We don't got nothin' to worry about."

Ice exhales, relieved. "Sounds good. An' the Commie?"

"I'm still lookin'," Anybodys says, though with more confidence than the last time he asked. "An' what it looks like is he's real hard to pin down. Keeps his head down, doesn't make a fuss, least not with his name attached to it. Kinda like you," she says with a pause. "'Cept I think he's got a brother, or somethin'."

"What about a gang?" Ice asks. One guy could do some damage on his own, sure, but this, he figures, is the important part.

"Maybe," Anybodys hedges, uncertainty flitting across her face. "I'm still workin' on that. For sure there's a buncha Russkies around here, more'n usual."

Ice gives a quick nod. "Good work," he says, and she lights up. "Lemme know when ya got more."

"For sure, Ice," she says, her breath puffing out into the cold air. "You bet I will."

.

Ice gets his first real taste of the Vipers when three of them—none older than fifteen, it looks like, and all, as Anybodys says, with red and green paint smudged under their eyes as some kind of gang marker—jump him behind the old autoyard, hollering and screaming and generally making a lot more noise than trouble, Ice thinks, rolling his eyes as he knocks two of them over. They don't know how to fight, they don't know how to work together, they don't know how to be a gang—like Anybodys also said, just kids trying to be more than they are. They're only a problem when they're all together and outnumber whichever Jets they come across.

This, to a gang that is still itching for the battle it so nearly had, is very welcome. Even if it means traveling in bigger groups than usual, and keeping an eye out for both cops _and_ the tell-tale face paint, war is war, and the Jets glory in it. As January rolls in, the Jets tumble into their headquarters with tales of successful skirmishes with the Sicilians. Big Deal and Gee-Tar, who seem to be speaking a bit more these days, chase Fang and Copper all the way into Shark territory. A-Rab and Anybodys take it upon themselves to trap Cobra in a meat locker. And Action, of course, lays into every Viper he sees with a vengeance.

The funny thing is, though, having an outlet for their frustration doesn't seem to change anything when they're with each other. If anything, the scuffles in Doc's are getting worse.

"Cut it," Ice says without getting up one afternoon as A-Rab leads Joyboy on a mad chase around the candy store, waving a stolen lollipop in the air and cackling hysterically as the irate Boyer twin lets loose with a blue streak. It's nothing he hasn't seen before, but—maybe that's the problem, he thinks with a sigh. He is so tired of this.

He has to repeat himself a couple times, but eventually they get the message. A-Rab tosses Joyboy his lollipop, and both of them go back to what they were doing before. And for a moment, the Jets relax.

Inevitably, though, Action snaps at Baby John, and the rest of them join in, cheering on whoever they feel like supporting that day. This time, Ice just watches. Baby John is getting better at handling himself in these situations, he notes. At any rate, Action isn't manhandling the younger boy as badly as he used to.

But what does it matter? Ice wonders. It's all, he thinks, starting to feel meaningless. The same thing, over and over again, day in and day out. Where does it all lead, and in the end—

"He's grown up a little, ain't he," observes Doc, wiping down the counter.

Ice glances over at him, startled. Nowadays Doc mostly keeps quiet, doesn't say too much. But what he does say doesn't usually sound like this. "I was just thinkin' that."

Doc inclines his head, lowers his voice. "You been thinkin' about other things I said, too?"

Ice tenses. "'Bout the kid?"

"Yeah," says Doc, his gaze flicking to Baby John, who's trying to escape Action's headlock. "That, too."

"I think about a lotta things these days, Doc," says Ice, his voice even. "You're gonna have to refresh my memory."

Doc tosses him a candy bar, and with a jolt, Ice remembers the same easy motion of almost seven months ago as he reaches up to catch it. "That there's maybe more to it than this, y'know. Hangin' out at a candy store an' makin' enemies of the world." He seems about to say more, then subsides, passing his hand over his eyes as he shuffles away. "Forget it."

Ice stares at the bar in his hands for a long moment, turning it over and over. When he speaks, it's almost to himself. "Yeah," he mutters. "Wouldn't that be nice."

.

"So tell me more about the Vipers," Velma says one night, laying her pencil down. She's been doing her homework while Ice has been attempting to distract her—and doing a good job of it, actually, until now. Gang business isn't something he really wants to talk about, but from the look in her eyes, she's not in the mood to take no for an answer. "Clarice says she bets her cousins know 'em."

Ice sighs. "They might. They're those little Sicilian kids who keep runnin' around screamin' bloody murder. Turns out they think they're some kinda gang." He half-smiles in spite of himself. "Kinda cute, I guess, if they didn't keep pantsin' A-Rab an' dumpin' Baby John in trash cans."

Velma stifles her own instinctive smile. "So they ain't dangerous?"

Ice shrugs. "Just a pain, really."

"They're the ones with the Christmas-colored faces, right?" Velma asks, her mouth twitching. "I think I've seen 'em around."

Ice has to laugh. "Yeah. They do it on purpose, call it their mark. Mouthpiece calls it war paint an' wants to play cowboys an' Indians with 'em. Action does, too, 'cept he don't mean it that way."

"I bet he don't," Velma says, looking amused. "How old are they?"

Ice shrugs. "Don't know for sure, but none-a them look real elderly. King—that's their captain, the one showin' around like he's top-a the world. I hear he's sixteen, plus maybe Ace an' Bull, too. But most of 'em can't be more'n fourteen. The littlest—Squeak, I think they call him—he's maybe twelve." He snorts. "There're so many I can't keep track."

Velma is silent, and Ice looks up to see that the smile has dropped off her face. "That's younger'n Chris."

Ice glances away, suddenly uncomfortable as if all the air has gone out of the room. "Yeah," he says, trying to head her off, "but neither-a your brothers're the type to be in gangs. Even this gang."

"I'm glad," says Velma, and when Ice looks back at her, feeling a little defensive, he sees that her head is in her hands. "I couldn't take it. Thinkin' about them in the middle of alla this, too."

Ice stares, not knowing how this has happened, how something almost laughable has turned into whatever this horrible quiet is. It doesn't seem like she's crying, but this silent helpless agony—is this what she looks like during rumbles when he's not around to see? he wonders—is somehow worse. "Everything's fine," he says not knowing what else to say. "I swear."

Velma nods without looking up. "I know."

He should go to her, he knows, make her see that she's just worrying for no reason. He used to be able to do that, once upon a time.

But now Ice sits frozen, unable to get up and say the words he knows by heart, unable to lie. He can't move. He can't breathe.

"I—I better go," he croaks at last, swallowing hard. Maybe, he thinks, reaching, grasping for anything that might make it better, if he's not in front of her, she'll stop thinking about him.

Velma half-raises her eyes. "Ice—"

He can't face her. He can't.

"Sorry," he mutters. And in another moment, he is out the window, running along the streets and cursing himself for his complete powerlessness, because of all the boys in the world to fall in love with she had to pick him, and there is nothing he can do to fix this. Nothing.

.

They've just made it back from a successful raid on the Vipers' pizzeria headquarters a week later when Ice spots Tiger skulking in the alley next to Doc's. Hanging back, he waits until the gang has filed into the candy store and jogs over.

"Cigarette?" Tiger offers immediately, a sheepish grin on his face as he holds his ever-present pack out.

"Where the hell were ya?" Ice asks conversationally, taking one and lighting up.

Tiger looks shamefaced. "I was—at work."

Ice raises an eyebrow. Now that he thinks about it, he shouldn't really be surprised, but what with all the trouble lately, he's somehow managed to miss this. "You got a job?"

Tiger's face flushes. "Well, my uncle's got this phone company, see, an' he said I could come help him with the calls he's gotta make all the time. It's like advertisin', kinda. 'Cept most people hang up on ya."

"Huh," Ice says, not quite able to imagine it. Tiger, with a job. "Sounds like—" And then he stops, shaking his head. The Jets, even if they are stronger and better fighters than the Vipers, are still a couple men down from them and can't afford for Tiger not to be there. "Look, buddy, I feel for ya, I really do, but you know how it is. You're a Jet, an' we need ya."

"I'm sorry, Ice, I am," Tiger says, his freckled face earnest. "It's just—I got a lot ridin' on this job, y'know? My kid's showin' up in two or three months, maybe, an' I wanna make sure he's got everythin' he wants. An' I—" Tiger's face turns even redder— "I got a _wife_ to take care of now, see."

Ice sighs. When it comes down to it, he doesn't even really have the heart to be angry at Tiger for doing what he has to do. "Okay," he says. "Just—show up next time, okay? Or tell us when ya gotta play hooky."

"Yeah," nods Tiger vigorously. "For sure, Ice, I will. How was it?"

"Good," says Ice, who in fact _is_ pleased about the day's work. "They don't even got the know-how to post sentries—they were all just sittin' inside eatin' pizza while we nabbed their stash. Wasn't a great one, just some hardware stuff," Ice shrugs, holding up his new wrench, "but still, nothin' to sniff at."

"Great," beams Tiger, obviously feeling relieved. "Lemme know when the next one is, Ice, I swear I'll be there!"

Ice nods, and even manages half a smile. "Sure, Tiger. I'll do that."

But as they walk into Doc's, Tiger already bracing for the ribbing that will be coming his way, Ice can't help but wonder if Tiger's absence is a sign of things to come. Like it or not, the Jet does have a family now—responsibility. And Ice, who has never had either before, can't imagine how Tiger will handle it. It's not something he'd know how to deal with, himself, he thinks with a sigh. Life is already complicated enough as it is. A job—a wife—a _kid_—

It's too much. Jesus, he thinks, stubbing out his cigarette in the ashtray on the counter as the Jets swarm around Tiger, waving hammers and screwdrivers and demanding explanations. Who'd have ever thought they'd be growing up like this?

.

Things keep moving.

"So why's no one takin' credit for those Vipers' shiners?" asks Ice. January is half gone and things are going pretty well. Though, it seems, not nearly as well as the amount of little Sicilians limping around would suggest.

"They got into a scuffle with some-a the new Reds," explains Anybodys, who is making her regular report. "Guess they stole some-a their vodka or somethin'. Anyway, a couple of 'em got black eyes—Bruiser, Tag, Wheezy—you know, the fat kid who jumped A-Rab a couple blocks from the movie theater an' swiped the candy _he_ stole from the theater." She snickers. "Not that he didn't deserve it."

Ice only hears one thing. "The new Reds?"

"I was just gettin' to that," says Anybodys in a rush. "I was thinkin' about that guy ya wanted me to find, see, an' how he's a Commie, so I asked this old drunk who lives in my building, an' Vlad pointed me over to the docks. Turns out there's a whole tribe-a Reds over there an' their kids formed up an' put themselves together into a gang. That's where they're comin' from. I ain't got the name yet, but I bet your guy's one of 'em."

Ice sits back to absorb this. It's not good news, certainly, but is it bad news? Gangs have territories. And if the Soviets stick to theirs…

"You dunno what I had to do to find _that_ out," she says, watching him narrowly, a strange shyness on her face.

Ice sees it, barely, and normally he'd ignore it, but after all, the kid's been good for the gang, really, which is something Riff and Tony never would have believed. And being a Jet looks like it still means everything to her. That's something, these days. "Yeah? What?"

And she's off again, the words tumbling out of her mouth, skidding and dashing and tripping all over themselves to tell him all about her favorite hiding places, and tailing every sonofabitch with a Commie accent, and all the near-misses she'd had, and Ice listens, or at least he tries to, but he can't escape the idea that it all means nothing. Nothing at all, compared to life and death and staying on the right side of both of them. And how in the world the Jets can do that, he thinks, rubbing his temples, when nobody—not the adults who police them, or the other kids they fight—knows how.

.

Ice is just dropping Velma off at her apartment after a movie when she mentions it.

"Bernice's back."

"That good?" he asks. Velma isn't the type to hate people but she's never really warmed up to Bernice.

Velma watches the falling snow. "I guess. Maybe. She looks kinda tired," she says. "Like she gained a little weight, maybe."

Ice shrugs. "Italian food's good, right?"

"I guess so," Velma says again. She doesn't look at him. "Anyway, it might be nice havin' her around again. Like old times."

Ice blinks. This is a surprise. "She comin' back to school?"

Velma hesitates. "No," she finally says. "I don't think so. Clarice said she's goin' to help their ma with Izzy. Anyway she'd be behind if she did."

"Izzy?" he asks, drawing a blank.

"Isabella. The new baby," she explains with a small smile. "She's real cute."

"Oh," he says. By this time it is more than obvious that Graziella is pregnant, too, and he wonders what it will be like. A baby—two babies, if you count Mrs. Gambini's—around the Jets. Noisy, he figures.

Velma shivers as a gust of wind blows snow into her face and her eyelids flicker. "It's cold."

Ice can see flurries dusting her eyelashes and reaches forward to brush them off. "That better?"

"Yeah. They're gettin' numb," she says, fingertips fluttering around her blue eyes. "You ever get so cold, sometimes, that you wonder if you'll freeze?"

"Yeah," he says, watching her. Her skin is pale, so pale that it seems almost translucent, and he wonders if it was like this last winter. He can't remember. "I do, sometimes."

She leans forward, puts her arms around him. "I'd better go."

Ice leans over and touches his lips to her forehead. He's meeting up with Big Deal to talk tactics and he's already later than he meant to be. "Sorry I can't stay."

She smiles a little before she goes in. "Me, too."

.

He sees the boy with the slow, enigmatic smile once more as the Vipers continue to pester the Jets. As always, he doesn't say much. But this time—this time, with everything closing in on him, Ice can't just let the Soviet go.

"Look," he says, trying to keep his voice even, "I don't exactly know if you've noticed, but this here block is Jet territory. An' since you've been hangin' around, you gotta know what that means by now."

The boy's expression is unreadable. "And what does it mean?"

"It means," says Ice, narrowing his eyes, "that you don't belong here. You an' all the Commies you know."

"Oh, I would not say that," says the Soviet, taking a drag on his cigarette.

Ice is unimpressed. "Yeah? Why not?"

"What it really means," the boy says, "is that whoever takes the street says who uses it."

Ice raises an eyebrow. "That's pretty much what I said, ain't it?"

The boy drops his cigarette to the pavement and grinds his heel down on it. "Not quite." He raises his hands, shrugs. "But I see your point. I will go. And you will not see me again for some time."

Ice should be satisfied with this. But somehow, he's not.

"Who are you?"

There again is that slow, almost painful smile, but this time—this time, he answers.

"Reaper."

And then he goes, and Ice, despite getting one out of the countless answers he's been looking for since August, is left feeling more troubled than ever.

.

They're still awful at fighting, and the Jets are still getting the best of them, but Ice has to admit that the Vipers—that ragtag gang that never seems to see when it's defeated—are getting to him.

They're taken to hanging around in groups of five or more, waiting for a Jet to come by, and when he does, they attack. Usually there's another Jet or two near enough to help, but there have been a couple of bloody noses, some near things. If the Vipers were anywhere near the Jets' level—in a real battle, not an six-on-one ambush—it wouldn't be so bad. Then it'd be worth it, beating on a gang that gives as good as it gets. But as it is these Vipers, play-gang as they are, aren't even worth a war council and a rumble. They don't understand that they're just wasting their time, taking on a gang so much stronger than they are, and Ice is getting fed up with it.

It's after one of these street scuffles that Ice wearily scales the fire escape and climbs through the window into Velma's room. His girlfriend is sitting against the headboard of her bed, legs curled up underneath her.

"Hey," he murmurs, heading over. He's tired as hell and can't get the image of Action's raw, red knuckles out of his head.

"Where've ya been, Ice?" she asks, blue eyes steady.

He doesn't look at her, just strips his shirt off and slumps down on the bed, limbs aching and heavy. "With the Jets. Half the Vipers tried to take Action outta commission. They forgot he ain't exactly Baby John, though."

"Yeah, she says quietly. "I figured." She pauses. "I just maybe thought that it bein' today, they'd all be off with _their_ girls, for once, an' give you a break."

He stares at her, and then all of a sudden it hits him like a ton of bricks. Today is the fourteenth. Of February. "Oh, hell."

Velma shakes her head. "It's fine," she says, though it doesn't seem like it. "It ain't your fault."

Ice sighs, feeling like just about the biggest louse in the world right now. Riff, he thinks, a sick ache spreading through him, Riff always used to remind him about stuff like this, anniversaries and birthdays and Valentine's Days that could send you sky-high or face-down into the dirt with a girl. "Come to think of it, Big Deal didn't show all day. Tiger, too. Even—" he blinks in surprise—"Baby John."

"He an' Minnie had their first real date," Velma explains, with a sideways quirk of her mouth he could almost call a smile. "She's s'posed to call Clarice later to say how it went. Clarice'll call me."

"Oh. Good," Ice says, distracted for the moment. It is about time, after all. But then he gives himself a mental shake. "I shoulda remembered too, Vee, I'm real sorry."

Velma shrugs. "I know ya got a lot on your mind, Ice," she says in a soft voice. She hesitates. "I just…"

Ice moves to settle in next to her and pulls her close. "What?" he asks, even though he's not sure he wants to know.

She sighs. "I miss you."

There is no blame in her voice, just a wistful sadness, and that makes it even worse. Ice doesn't say anything, just glances down and watches the little light there is reflect off of Velma's hair and feels a tightening in his chest. She means more than just tonight, and he doesn't know what to tell her. Now, or any other night he sees her. There are no answers anymore.

Finally, he leans over and presses his lips to her forehead. "I'm sorry," he repeats quietly. And he is, more than she or anyone else will ever know.

That night he lies awake, turning over possibilities in his head. Where this could all lead, and what could happen. What might hurt the least.

Ice still thinks, more and more, that she might be better off without him. He hasn't forgotten the look on her face in November when he'd brought it up, the way all the light in her seemed to fold in on itself and die. He hasn't forgotten those whispered, fierce words, or her arms around him, or his promise. He hasn't forgotten any of it.

But somehow what he sees now, every time they're together, is worse. Because he still remembers her as she used to be before the summer, vivid with love. And now—

There's a sadness in her eyes, that won't go away, and for Ice, it's too hard to look at her and see what he's done to the girl he loves best in the world. How tired she is, and how he can't see how it'll be any better in the future, because this is a problem he can't solve. This is beyond all of them now, and he begins to think, more and more, that there is only one thing that he can do for her to make it all go away.

"Talk to me," she whispers in the darkness when she thinks he is asleep, and regardless of whatever he tells his mother, there is nothing more that Ice wants to do. But he can't.

_I love you_, he hears. It's a voice from a dream. _And you love me. That's all that matters_.

And he wonders, now. Is it?

Hours later, as he pulls his shirt on, he feels a hand on his arm.

"You're leavin'?" she asks, and Ice can hear the hurt in her voice. But he can't stay, can't face her when morning comes and daylight enters her room.

He nods, not looking at her. "Yeah." He hesitates, hearing the dream-voice once more and wondering if it's true. "I love you."

And there it is, the one time nowadays that her voice ever sounds just like it used to. "I love you, too."

.

It's the eerie quiet that bothers Ice.

This time, the Vipers don't miss a war council or fail to show up for a rumble. This time, they simply vanish, go missing from their old haunts and hideouts. As a gang, that is. Ice sees one or two of them in the street, scrubbed up and almost unrecognizable without all the dirt and war paint. Which, he's starting to think, might actually be the point. They pretend not to see him, walk with their mothers and not each other. It's as if they never existed in the first place.

Something's scared them good, that much is clear, and Ice is starting to suspect it's whatever got the Musclers, because sure as hell the police have never been particularly effective in that area.

And this time, when he sees a long scar running down and across the face of the blustering, big-talking boy formerly known as King—softer, less horrific, but unmistakably the same—he doesn't wait.

By now, Anybodys doesn't need to be told; she just nods, face wrinkling, the next time he approaches her.

"Yeah," she says, her voice short. "I'm on it."

.

Since his father died, Ice has been scared out of his mind maybe two or three times in his life. He's not the type to shy away from a fight, or a rumble, or even all-out nuclear annihilation like the government is always warning them about. But some things can't be fought and what is fast catching up to them, finally, looks like it might be one of them. The Musclers. The Vipers. Both wiped out, one way or another. Ice has escaped death twice now. How many more times can he get lucky?

He needs a drink, Ice decides, and there is really only one place for that.

"Oh," he says, stopping short as he opens the weatherbeaten red door to a cramped back-alley bar. "Hi, Graz."

His girlfriend's best friend looks up from her seat at the counter and gazes at him, expressionless. "Hi, Ice."

"Didn't expect to see you here," he says, unable to help the quick glance to her midsection. He hasn't seen her in awhile and the change, at least to him, is startling. From what Velma says, she's due around March, and though he's as far from an expert as he can get, he can tell.

Graziella shrugs, and from the look on her face he knows he hasn't fooled her. "Can't really drink, but I drop in sometimes. It's good for when ya wanna be alone. Usually, anyway," she says, her mouth twisting as her gaze drops briefly to the counter.

Ice shuffles his feet. "Hadna thought of it that way," he says. "I ain't lookin' to steer clear-a no one. Look, I'll let ya alone, then."

He is nearly out the door when her low voice stops him. "Ya gotta work on your lyin', Ice."

Ice turns. "What?"

Graziella shakes her head, and her fading curls fall limp around her. "It ain't just the Jets you're runnin' from. You don't wanna see her, do ya."

Ice shakes his head. "No, that ain't—"

"Look, I know. I get it," she says, her voice soft and dull. She traces aimless circles on the counter. "You can't look at her 'cause it's too hard. 'Cause you ain't the same person you were an' you can't ever be again an' who the hell knows if _she'll_ ever look at _you_ the same way she did an' even if she does you don't deserve it." She turns to face him. "That wrong?"

Ice stares at her for a long moment, then shakes his head again. "No."

"Yeah. I get it," she says again, her voice bitter. "We ain't all perfect."

Ice, unnerved, isn't sure what to say. This is so far from the Graziella he remembers that she's almost a stranger. And so he sits, signals for a drink, and when it comes, downs half of it in one gulp.

"D'ya remember what you said that night?" she asks after what seems a lifetime, her voice quiet. "After?"

Ice thinks of the long walk home in the silent empty street and leaving his best friend's girlfriend on the sidewalk outside her apartment. The way he'd never seen her so quiet and thinking how strange it was. If they spoke, he doesn't remember it. "I don't know."

"Ya do or ya don't, Ice," Graziella says, voice flat. "There's no between."

Ice shakes his head. "No," he says. "I'm sorry."

"You said everything'd be okay," the redhead says, twisting the dull gold ring on her finger. "D'ya still believe that?"

Ice stares at the counter. Does he?

He wants to say yes, can feel it on the tip of his tongue. He knows it's what she wants, that reassurance that something out there can be depended on, that comfort that he himself has been given several times. But he looks at her and he can't bring himself to lie.

"I don't know that I ever did," he says. "I don't know that I ever believed in anything."

Graziella glances up at him. "That's about what I thought," she says, her voice slow, heavy. Again her fingertips worry the edge of her ring, and the movement seems so instinctive that Ice wonders if she even realizes she's doing it. "That's just it."

Ice exhales, tries to smile. "I'm that easy to figure, huh."

Graziella's shoulders rise, then slump down again. "You didn't used to be. I used to tell her—Velma—that she was the only girl you'd ever say more'n two words to." She shakes her head. "She couldn't believe it."

The air in his lungs dies. "Yeah. Well," he murmurs, "a lot of things didn't used to be."

"D'ya miss him?" she asks suddenly. "Riff. I mean, I know you was buddies, but I don't know if it's like me, with you. Like how sometimes it just hurts to breathe an' there ain't nothin' that helps."

Ice takes a deep, slow breath and wonders if Bernardo's girl—Anita—looks this bruised, this wounded nowadays. "'Course," he says in a low voice. "Him an' Tony. They were the best friends I ever—"

As he breaks off, Ice thinks of hot summer afternoons spent running all over the West Side, never believing in their own mortality and never knowing they carried their deaths with them all along—does he now? is it here? he wonders for a brief, panic-filled moment—and he thinks of how their weight is so heavy that sometimes he wants nothing more than to forget he ever knew them at all. It's horrible, he knows—but it's true.

"Yeah," he says, tipping the rest of his drink down his throat. His voice is so quiet even he can barely hear it. "I miss 'em."

.

He's spent so much time imagining it, dreading the moment, that when the door swings open and Ice looks up, it's almost unreal. Standing there, outlined in the reddish glow of sunset, is Reaper. And eight other guys.

A few of them he's seen before, mostly the little ones, but the older boys he doesn't recognize. They're dressed in different shades of red and black and they're anywhere from skinny to huge but they all have one thing in common—knife handles that look like white bone, sticking out of the pockets of their jeans.

"Reaper," Ice says in the silence that follows, as the Jets turn questioning eyes toward him. Word gets around quickly in a gang and he's sure they've all seen a couple of these guys hanging around, but he doesn't know if they've connected the dots like he is doing now. They know better, though, than to make a fuss with a new gang standing right there in front of them.

"Like the Grim? Oh, ya gotta be kiddin' me," chuckles Snowboy, always the joker, but Ice puts a hand out to quiet him and gets to his feet, feeling older than ever.

"I see ya made some friends."

Reaper gives that smile that by now is so familiar to Ice. "And now I meet yours."

"Cut to the chase," Ice says, the blood rushing through his veins. This is it, he thinks, everything is finally coming down to the other question he has asked, over and over for the past six months, and has never gotten an answer for. "What d'ya want?"

And Reaper lifts his hand, gestures around him. "This."

Ice doesn't budge. "Doc's?"

"The territory," comes a new voice, one that belongs to the tall, dark-haired boy on Reaper's right, and it, too, carries a heavy accent. He meets Ice's eyes squarely. "It's good. The best, even."

"We don't need to fight, though," says a younger boy, and to his surprise, Ice hears barely a trace of an accent in his voice. The slim boy, who almost resembles Baby John with his blond hair, blue eyes, and naïve face, doesn't speak like the Jets, but he doesn't talk quite like the Reds, either. "We're giving you a chance. We can just make a deal. Then none of you will get hurt."

"Why, you—you think we're just gonna keel over and let ya have it like that—?" bursts Action, glaring at them—this offer is all the excuse he needs to declare a new enemy on the spot, no matter who it is—and as A–Rab and Big Deal wrestle him back into his seat, Reaper steps forward.

"Sasha," is all he needs to say before the younger boy steps back.

"Sasha? That ain't no kinda gang name I ever heard, an' if it was, it sounds like a _girl's_," taunts Anybodys, eyes narrowed. Til now she's remained quiet, but she is leaning over, her face twisted in a scowl. Reaper turns to her and as ever, his smile doesn't reach his eyes.

"To you, he is Switch."

His gaze meets Ice's then, and the Jet captain can feel the contempt he has for the only girl in the gang, and for the gang that let her in. I thought better of you, his eyes seem to say. But Ice doesn't move.

"But you heard him," continues Reaper. "We know what happened this summer. We don't have to fight. No one has to get hurt, or"—and every Jet's ears prick up at this—"die."

"Fuck off," spits Action again, and for once, Ice can't blame him. "We fought for this—we _bled_ for this—an' we ain't just gonna give it up like it's nothin'!"

"It _is_ the best. An' it's ours," says Baby John, and Ice, though he still doesn't move, is struck by the difference between now and two months ago, when the Musclers came to call. He _is_ stronger, thinks Ice. Good. By the looks of this gang, the Jets will need him more than they ever did against the Emeralds, or the Sharks, or the Musclers, or the Vipers.

And again, a new voice cuts in. "So—we fight." This boy, on Reaper's other side, has the heaviest accent of all, and when he looks at him, Ice can see a long white scar running up the left side of his face, through a pale green eye. He doesn't sound scared at all—he sounds like he needs whatever fight that is coming. Maybe even more than Action does.

Ice sizes up the rest of the gang. Reaper. The big one. Two about Mouthpiece and Tiger's size. A skinny one. A middling one with muscles to make up for his height. Three little ones. Not ideal, but the Jets outnumber them and they can handle it.

"Yeah," he says, and a sigh seems to go up from all around him, from both his gang and Reaper's. This, then, is what they have all been waiting for without even knowing it. The real deal. "We'll fight."

"We will give you time," Reaper says. His expression alone is unmoved, and Ice has a feeling the Soviet expected nothing less. "You may change your minds about that when you see what we can do."

And Ice, his gaze locked with Reaper's, shakes his head. It is Action's words, and Riff and Tony's faces, that echo through his mind—we _bled_ for this—and he knows now that everything from summer on has been leading to this one moment, with this one gang, and this one boy. And for that there is only one answer.

"Go to hell."


	23. between heaven and hell

Disclaimer: And now I feel bad about my last disclaimer. Goodbye, Arthur Laurents, and say hello to Jerry, Lenny and Ernest Lehman for us! You will be missed. Stephen Sondheim, never leave us.

Note: AT LAST. I'm so, so sorry. What with work, it's been impossible to find time to write this, and when I did find the time (eight hours and the _Inception_ score on countless repeats today, basically) it ballooned, as all my chapters insist on doing. This is actually the cut version. -_-; I really, really hope you like it, and as always, I die of happiness whenever I get any kind of feedback whatsoever. :)

Proper credit: goes to **BardessofAvon** (nice penname!) for an RP conversation we had way back that helped map out Big Deal's contribution to this chapter, and for being behind so much Anybodys here. Thanks, as always, go to her and **RhapsodyinProgress**, who is pretty much the best lovestruck, slightly batty, bird-loving Sondheim heroine ever. :)

—viennacantabile

* * *

fell the angels

twenty-three : between heaven and hell

.

"I went a little farther," he said, "then still a little farther—till I had gone so far that I don't know how I'll ever get back."

—Joseph Conrad, Heart of Darkness

.

They find out soon enough that the Soviets are fast and bloodthirsty—bat-shit crazy, actually, in their hair-trigger eagerness to get into a fight. More than that, they are fearless. It's only been a week since the Soviets' arrival, and Ice has already had to draw on every bit of experience he's had with the Jets to hold them off. This is a gang that's used to winning, Ice thinks, and it's his job to make sure that this time, they don't.

It's all complicated by the fact that Schrank, still determined to hang something on the gang that for once they didn't do, is prowling around like never before, tipped off by some Viper's nosy mother that the hoodlums who scared her son off the streets are named the Jets. This doesn't, of course, stop either the Jets or the Soviets from getting hold of each other and doing as much damage as possible in the back alleys and shadows of the city. And even if the cops weren't all over the place Ice has a feeling that's how the Soviets would prefer to operate, which is just fine by him. But it doesn't make their lives any easier. Twice, Ice only just manages to avoid getting cornered and dragged off on suspicion. It's getting very hard to go a block without seeing Krupke or Goddard or some other clown patrolling, making sure the streets are safe from thugs and juvenile delinquents like the Jets. He's not sure whether they know about the Commies, but with Schrank, it wouldn't matter.

"If ya knew what was good for ya," the lieutenant says when Ice finally gets carted off for questioning—the third time is always the charm—"you'd sing like a bird, buster. You bet your ass I'm looking for any shred of proof to pin this on you, and kid? You ain't a kid no more, unless I miss my guess. So if you don't wise up real fast, you're gonna be going away for a long time."

For once there's something new in that threat, and as Ice mulls this over, he realizes Schrank has a point. He's never gotten caught for anything that would actually get him arrested, but a guy with his juvenile record and buddies isn't likely to catch any breaks if he lands in front of a judge. And now that he is twenty, well—

He just won't get caught, that's all. Simple as that.

Half an hour later, he's met outside by a skinny shadow. "Schrank still chasin' his fat ass in circles?"

Ice doesn't even pause, gaze darting from alley to alley as he heads over to the shortcut to Doc's. "Thinks we cleared out the Musclers an' the Vipers. Long's he can't lock us up for it, I don't mind if he keeps on thinkin' that."

"He get anythin' outta you?" Anybodys wants to know, half-jogging to keep up. "Cops're all lousy, but Schrank, he's _real_ dirty. Still can't figure how he ain't dead yet, with all the people he's mouthed off to."

Ice, though he agrees, shrugs. "Nah, 'course not." He turns to look at the tomboy, who's even grimier than usual. "Did ya get it?"

Anybodys's shoulders straighten. "'Course I did," she says with some pride. "Spent all day scopin' 'em out by the docks—I keep changin' hidin' places, see, so's they don't sniff me out. Last time it was behind some-a the big crates they got piled up in the warehouse, but this time I didn't know how long I was gonna be there so I snuck in real early an' camped out up in the crawl space up in the roof—the _roof_, Ice," she repeats, a grin flashing white out of her smudged face, "where no one else could get but me, an' I kept real quiet 'cause I knew if I didn't they'd hear me, an'—"

"And?" asks Ice, amused in spite of himself. He's learned by now that the best way to handle the tomboy is to let her go on for a minute or two and then interrupt when she's not expecting it, startle her into getting to the point. "What'd ya find out?"

"They did the Musclers. An' the Vipers," says Anybodys, and Ice nods at this confirmation. "An' not just them, neither. I heard they do this all the time, sneak up behind gangs an' take 'em out in a real blitz without no one knowin' what's up. 'S why it was so hard to get anythin' about 'em before. I got a couple names now—the the Panthers, the Bandits, the Untouchables."

"The Untouchables?" Ice repeats, troubled. He remembers hearing about the gang a couple years back when the Jets were still getting things started. He's known they haven't been around for awhile now, but he's never heard how. "That was them?"

Anybodys nods. "Yeah. The Commies, they clean out the local gang an' slap the territory onto theirs. I guess they'd have more of a rep, 'cept they move around, pick their targets real careful so's the coppers never catch on. An' anyone who gets in their way, they burn," she says, her mouth twisted. "This's the first I've even gotten a whiff from anyone about 'em bein' over in our territory, an' we own the place."

Ice considers this. "Okay. What else?"

"That captain, Reaper," Anybodys says, stopping, her blue eyes gleaming. "Gets a kick outta slashin' people up an' across their faces—I hear it was him who gave Tank a whole new mug as was even uglier, an' I didn't even think that could happen. Then there's Saber, Pinch, Snapper, Blade, an' Claw, the right-hand man. Reaper's half-brother, or somethin'. All real nasty, but Claw, he's a whole 'nother level-a crazy. Reaper, at least you see him carvin' ya. Claw, he does it up the back an' twists the knife to really work ya over." She shivers. "An' then a bunch more; couldn't catch their names, but I ain't so worried about them. They're less than us," she says, almost hopefully. "Only nine."

"We can handle 'em," Ice says, as he always does, but even as he says it he feels a shiver down his spine. Beyond what he already knows about Reaper, he doesn't like the sound of that lieutenant Claw. What he likes even less is the way Anybodys gives him that quick, confident nod, like there is no way they will lose. But what if he can't stop them? he wonders, what if he fails again?

"Say, Ice?"

"Yeah?" he says, jolted out of his thoughts by her tentative poke.

"How'd ya know his name?"

Ice blinks. He hasn't been looking forward to this question, and he still hasn't figured out how to answer it. Finally he goes with a version of the truth. "He told me, the last time I saw him."

Anybodys frowns. "What?"

"He was the guy," Ice says. "The Soviet I asked ya to look into. I kept seein' him around. 'S how I knew somethin' was comin'."

"Well, yeah, I figured _that_ when a whole herd-a Commies showed up at Doc's," she says with a snort, then her face twists as she absorbs that last part. "Whaddaya _mean_, you knew somethin' was comin'?"

"Just what I said," Ice answers, only half-focusing on her scowl. "I told ya, I kept seein' that guy around, an' when I found out about Tank gettin' carved up—"

Anybodys's eyes are incredulous. "You heard about that, too?"

"An' King," Ice says, thinking back to those raw wounds. "Saw both of 'em runnin' around leakin' blood after the Reds wiped 'em out."

Anybodys lets out a big huff, and Ice glances at her in surprise. "Well, what'd ya keep sendin' me out for if ya already knew everythin', huh?"

"I didn't," he says, furrowing his brow. Just how much information he was missing is pretty frightening, actually. "Still don't."

Anybodys scowls at him, looking unconvinced. "You keep holdin' out on me, it only makes it harder," she informs him. "I'm a _Jet_ now. Ya gotta trust me, Ice."

Ice blinks. For once, Anybodys sounds just like a girl.

"I do," he says, and for once his inability to lie comes in handy—she can't say he's not telling the truth in this, at least. "What, ya think I'd send Gee-Tar out spyin' in Commie territory? Guess you ain't as smart as I thought."

Anybodys looks a little mollified. "Gee-Tar wouldn't last two seconds with the Russkies."

"Nope," Ice agrees. "'Sides, I knew you could find out yourself, an' if ya did, then I'd be twice as sure."

"I—that don't get you off the hook," she warns, but the tiny grin spilling over onto her face says otherwise. "I mean, don'tcha think ya owe me somethin' for wastin' my time?"

He shrugs, feeling she does have a point. "You want I should tell the guys to get off your back?" The Jets have mostly accepted that he won't be telling Anybodys to shove off anytime soon, but a couple of them—A-Rab in particular—aren't exactly falling all over themselves to welcome her, even after all this time. "Make sure they know you're one-a the gang?"

A strange look comes onto her face. "I—yeah, sure," she says, her voice flat. "I gotta go." She is turning to leave when she stops, her face slipping back to wariness. "One more thing."

Ice half-smiles. "Yeah?"

"I hear they go by the Red Death."

Against his will a shiver travels up his spine. He raises his eyebrow, starts to make some easy remark about theatrics to shake off the uneasiness stealing over him, but Anybodys is already gone.

.

"Really?" asks Velma, wrinkling her forehead, and Ice sees the same half-amused, half-frightened shiver pass through her body. "That's what they call themselves?"

"Yeah," Ice says, latching on to the less worrisome part of her reaction. He's only got a minute at her place before he has to go. "But we don't call 'em that. Just the Reds. Less of a mouthful."

"An' it don't sound like some horror movie," Velma says with another almost shudder.

Ice half-smiles. "We ain't scared."

"They a problem?" she asks, glancing sideways at him.

He is quiet for a moment. "I don't know. Maybe." Ice braces himself for more questions—for protests—but to his surprise, all she does is look at him, so intensely it feels like her gaze is burned into his skin.

"I mean, we can take 'em," he adds, unnerved by the silence. "It'll be fine."

He sees her bite her lip, work through whatever mystery is in her mind before she opens her mouth. "Okay," is all she says, her voice soft and her eyes dark.

It's almost worse, not hearing her ask him to stop. Not hearing her tell him she doesn't believe him. Not hearing her say that she is afraid. Because if she doesn't, and if no one else does before it's too late, there's no way in hell he can say it, either.

Ice clears his throat, feeling as though he's stepping off the edge of a precipice, and touches her hand. "See ya later."

All the laughter in her smile is gone now. "See ya."

.

In March, Graziella goes into labor and out comes a baby who is too dark-haired and too early to be whose Tiger says he is, but the Jets, either because they genuinely don't put it together, don't give a damn, or because there is just no point, keep silent and let the proud not-father imagine Graziella's baby is his son.

Ice, standing in the Roberts' tiny bedroom with hands jammed in his pockets, staring at the kid in his crib while Velma, Clarice, Bernice, and Minnie coo over the new mother, has an uncomfortable feeling he knows exactly who the father is. It's not as if Graziella makes it hard to guess. She's named the kid Riff. Of course.

The open secret is safe with him, though. Ice is very firmly in the 'no point to telling' camp. Ignorance is bliss, he thinks, remembering Tiger's happy grin. It wouldn't do any good, anyway. Riff Jr. might as well have a dad, and Tiger is as harmless as they come. He might even love the kid. Stranger things have happened.

As his eyes linger on this last bit of his old friend, Ice becomes aware of the silence around him and turns to find Graziella, the twins, and Velma watching him with a look he can't identify. Only Minnie is missing that shrewd gaze. Ice clears his throat. "He's sure a cute kid, Graz."

The redhead grins. "Wanna hold him?"

Ice chokes. "What?"

"Hold him!" snickers Graziella, looking happier than he's seen her in months as the girls trade looks and giggles. "Ya got hands, don'tcha?"

"I'd drop him," Ice protests with a panicked glance at Riff. It's true that Izzy Gambini has been around for a couple months now, but as she isn't any Jet's kid, Ice hasn't ever had to be closer than ten feet from a baby in his life and he hadn't planned on starting now. Graziella will murder him if anything goes wrong, he thinks, edging back an inch. And for once in his life he guesses he wouldn't be able to blame her.

Velma laughs. "C'mon, Ice," she urges, getting up and walking over. She reaches down into the crib and comes up with Riff. "Just hold him. Make sure ya keep his head up."

Ice, unable to do anything else, lets her deposit the kid into his arms and does as she says. "Oh, God," he says, staring down at the baby. He is absolutely petrified. Forget the Reds, forget every man he ever fought—_now_ he's scared. "Whadda I do now?"

Velma glances up at him, a soft smile on her face. "Nothin'," she says, watching him. "You're doin' fine. Just hold him."

Ice swallows hard, then stares down at the little face just a foot or so below his own. If he looks long enough, he thinks suddenly, maybe he'll see Riff in this kid with his name and blood. There's the nose. And the shape of the eyes. And, he realizes, startled, as the baby gurgles, the same goddamn grin. It's Riff's, all right. Well, Ice thinks with a ghost of a smile, Riff, you did it. You made your mark. You left something here. Huh.

And for the second time, Ice becomes aware of a very unnatural silence and looks up to see four pairs of fascinated, unblinking eyes fastened to him. Only Velma is studiously turned away this time, a faint flush on her cheeks. Ice glances from the girls, to the baby he's holding, to Velma, and feels his face turn bright red.

"I—I'm gonna go see what the guys're up to," he stutters, handing baby Riff over to Velma so fast she barely has time to blink. "Cute kid, Graz!" he adds one last time, before fleeing out the door and into the hall, where he leans, panting, against the wall and wonders at the changes this year has brought. Babies. Jesus, he shudders, he is twenty years old and there is no way in hell he is ready for _babies_. How can Tiger just sit there all happy like he doesn't have a care in the world? Real father or not, it's still a _kid_. It wasn't very long ago, Ice thinks, feeling very young and very old, that all of them were just kids themselves.

He hasn't been out of the room for five minutes when Big Deal comes staggering into the hall, clutching two bottles of beer. "Hey, Daddy-O!" he grins. "Get tired-a the hens cluckin' in there?"

The title is nothing new, but coming on the heels of a Jet _actually becoming a dad_, Ice winces. "Yeah, pretty much. Girls," he says feelingly. "I don't get 'em. It's just a kid."

"I'll tell ya what you need," grins Big Deal, lazily swinging a bottle at him. "Some _booze_."

"Thanks," Ice says, popping the cap off and taking a healthy swig, "I need one." He slides down onto the floor. "Jesus, buddy," he says, shaking his head. "Still can't believe it."

"Tiger, a dad? I know," Big Deal says, dropping down next to him. "'Least it's not Mouthpiece. Kid needs a leash." Lying down, he begins to hum a quirky tune Ice doesn't know, punctuating notes with a giggle or two.

Ice makes a face and glances sideways at Big Deal, gauging the Jet's level of sobriety. His lieutenant is the kind that doesn't remember anything that happens when he's drunk, and Ice, if he plays his cards right, might be able to use that. "Say, Big Deal?"

"Yeah, Ice-man?" the Jet slurs, eyes firmly shut.

Ice weighs his next words carefully. "I been thinkin'-a…maybe coolin' things with Vee a little bit."

Big Deal jerks up, eyes shooting open. "_What_?" Sitting up, he winces and rubs his head. "Ow."

Ice ignores this. "Only 'cause I keep messin' things up for her," he says in a low voice, mindful that there is only a wall separating them from the girls. "I'm with the Jets all the time, an' I keep lettin' her down. Don'tcha think she's better off without all that?"

"Oh, Lord, are you stupid," says Big Deal to no one in particular, sinking back down to lie on the floor. "Who are ya an' what've ya done with my buddy-boy, buddy-boy?"

"I'm only thinkin'-a her," Ice insists, annoyed that Big Deal doesn't seem to get it. "Look, I don't like it neither, but think about it. What if somethin' happens to me? What if one day I don't come back? You saw what happened to Graz. Why the hell would I want that to happen to Vee?"

Big Deal frowns. "What the hell kinda idiot are ya, Ice?" he demands. "For starters, ain't nothin' gonna happen to ya. An' second, I really don't think Velma's out to get knocked up by—Tiger," he stumbles, making a face. "Or marry him, neither."

Ice grimaces. "Jesus, I hope not. But no," he persists, "I mean, you saw Graz walkin' around in a funk for months an' months cause-a Riff. I thought she was gonna go off the deep end. An' Vee—she oughta be with someone who might not be about to _die_ on her." He sighs. "Like some jock or somethin', I don' know."

Big Deal gags. "Now I _know_ you're off your rocker. Ya want your girl to go out with some dumbass prepster wannabe _jock_?"

Ice winces. "Well—"

"Oh, shut up an' quit tryin' to be a hero," Big Deal says, taking a halfhearted swing at him. "Don'tcha think she'd feel even worse if ya dumped her? Plus, if ya dumped her an' then ya died, she'd be dumped by a dead guy." He hiccups. "Ain't nothin' worse'n that."

Ice takes another gulp of his beer and sighs. "Listen, buddy-boy—"

Big Deal lurches up to shake his head and glower at him. "It ain't just that, is it," he says. "You wouldn't think about leavin' her just for some shit _noble_ reason like that. Ya can't be that stupid. There's gotta be somethin' else."

Ice stares back. He can tell that he is not about to win Big Deal over. Well, he thinks, tipping his beer back and feeling the dull fire burn its way down his throat, it was probably a long shot anyway. Big Deal is the best buddy he has left, but even he doesn't get it. It figures.

"So," he says. He is so tired. "How about that kid, huh?"

Big Deal watches him with narrowed eyes for another moment before flopping back onto the floor with a sigh. "Man. You could knock me over with a feather. I sure as hell didn't see it coming."

"Yeah," says Ice, settling deeper against the wall as his head begins to ache. "Yeah."

.

A few days later, Velma tells him that there will be a dance at the gym that week. She doesn't ask but it's obvious she wants to go.

Sure, he says. It's not only Velma who wants to pretend their world is normal. It would be nice, he thinks, to have a night off. For all of them too, maybe. And for an hour or so, while he, Big Deal, and Baby John pick up the girls, it works. Velma's in a dark gray dress like shadows and she's done something around her eyes, he can't tell what, that makes him want to take her home before they've even left. He feels more alive, looking at her standing there with that smoky blue gaze, than he has in almost a year.

"Ya look…" He clears his throat. "You look good, Vee."

She dimples, just like she used to. "I was hopin' you'd think so."

But when they get there, Ice sees the wide wooden floor of the gym and the decorations and even Glad Hand and it's too close, he thinks, almost choking on the familiarity of it all. Too close, and even nine months after it's too soon.

There's even a Shark or two there, he observes, hand tightening around Velma's. That skinny kid, and the dark-skinned one who Ice supposes must be the lieutenant now, if Pepe is captain. And a few others.

Who else will he recognize? he wonders. As far as Ice knows, both the Sharks and the Jets have kept to their truce, have stayed out of each others' territory. But this is neutral ground, and not part of their agreement. Ice doesn't think it'll be a problem—after all, the Jets are dealing with another gang right now and don't have time to worry about the Sharks—but he does wonder what the Puerto Ricans know. If they've had to deal with other gangs, too, and whether they've had any more losses.

From her quick glance up at him, Velma sees them, too, but she doesn't say anything, just tugs him over to their usual spot and puts her arms around him. He can tell she's doing her best to block his view of the gym, of the other people there, and he lets her. In some ways he's almost grateful. He's not a kid anymore, and he never was good at playing pretend, anyway.

He does his best to keep his head down and focus his attention on her until Clarice comes over and whispers in her ear. Velma, listening, nods.

"I'm goin' to the ladies' with Clarice," she says, and touches his hand before she leaves. Ice watches her go, just in case, and is surprised when one of the Shark girls, a curvy brunette with a pretty face, scurries over and joins them just as they reach the door. He recognizes her—she's the lieutenant's girl, maybe?—but he wouldn't really be able to name her. She looks nice enough, he supposes. It's just odd, that's all. Velma isn't one to socialize with people she doesn't know, especially not one of the Sharks' girls. But he can't see how Clarice would know her, either.

Now that he's by himself and looking around at all the kids there, Ice feels almost useless. He doesn't know where Big Deal and Baby John have gone off to, and not for the first time it strikes him that without them or Velma, he has no reason to be here. With the Jets is the only place he has ever belonged, and if they aren't here…

He almost thinks his eyes are playing tricks on him at first. Ice has to look, again and again, to make sure. But after five minutes, he knows what he's seeing: Reaper, standing alone on the other side of the gym, leaning against the wall.

Ice hasn't seen Reaper by himself since before the Reds came out into the open and he is not in the mood to see him now. That guy, he thinks, his anger rising, that guy who came in, cased the neighborhood, asked for a light like he owned it. That guy. And Ice let him.

He knows. He knows that this is neutral territory, that he shouldn't start trouble. He knows. And yet the sight of the Red captain standing there bold as brass sets his teeth on edge and Ice, feeling the blood rush through his veins, can't just let him go.

"What're you doin' here?"

Reaper glances over. "Ice."

The Jet captain doesn't budge. "What're you doin' here?"

The Soviet smiles. "I don't think that's your business."

Ice grits his teeth. "It's my business if you're thinkin' to come in an' pretend like this neighborhood's yours, too. There're rules. This here's neutral territory; I an' every other gang around here knows it, an' if you—"

"Ice?"

It's Velma.

Her watchful gaze passes from him to Reaper. "I didn't know where you went."

Once again, Ice thinks to himself that he's lucky she's not like the other girls, that she's got a sense of when a situation's sticky. Still, he doesn't want to worry her, not tonight. "Just talkin'."

"Yes," the Soviet says, as Ice glances at him, instantly wary. "Nothing for _you_ to worry about."

Velma's attention is back on Reaper now, cautious blue eyes meeting dark gray. "Who're you?"

The Soviet smiles, and Ice thinks to himself that though he can't say why, he doesn't like the casual way that Reaper's eyes settle on her. Not at all. "Anatoly. But what is _your_ name?"

"Velma," she says, voice still guarded, and Ice wishes she hadn't told him. It's there, something niggling him at the back of his mind, but he can't quite understand what it is. All he knows is he doesn't like it.

"We gotta go," Ice says abruptly, taking her hand and ignoring both her startled look and the Red. "C'mon, Vee."

Reaper doesn't move. "I am sure we will meet again."

"We'll see about that," she says, giving him a cool stare. "But I wouldn't count on it."

Reaper's expression doesn't change, and the focus in his eyes doesn't either. And as the Red continues to stare at Velma, Ice realizes with a start that he's seen that half-calculating, half-fascinated look on Reaper's face before, in the entrance of Doc's and around the neighborhood.

"_If you want something—if it is _there_—why don't you take it?"_

And in that moment, Reaper's gaze flicks over to Ice as the corner of his mouth rises in a deliberate smile.

A wave of pure terror crashes over Ice as he breaks into a cold sweat. He wants to _hit_ him, wants to pummel him so hard there is no way the Red will get up again. This—this is something Ice hasn't even thought of—

"C'mon," he says again. They have to get out of there, they have to—

"Goodbye, Velma," calls Reaper, and Ice wonders if he is the only one who can hear the mocking taunt in that voice. Velma barely turns her head.

"Oh," she says in that cool, distant tone of hers she reserves for people she doesn't like. "Goodbye."

And for once he wishes she weren't so pretty.

"C'mon," he says for the third time, hurrying her toward the door. "Let's get outta here."

As they leave the Red behind, they pass Baby John, who is talking to—Ice isn't sure but it looks like that skinny little Shark again. Their eyes widen as they see him, and it's so much the same expression that normally Ice would be amused, but not now. Not after what has just happened. So he doesn't say anything, just nods and gets them out of there as fast as he can, wondering all the while how the hell he could have missed this in every game plan, in every possibility he ever mapped out. All eyes are on them but right now he'd prefer if no one knew the Jets at all

They're three blocks away before he slows down, still cursing himself for his idiocy.

"I don't like that guy," Velma says, her eyes narrowed. "Who is he?"

"Don't do that," he says, speaking so low he can barely hear himself. His voice, his throat, are almost paralyzed. It's so hard to look at her.

Velma stops him with a hand on his arm. He can hear her concern. "What?"

Ice pushes his fear away and concentrates on getting the words out, his voice tight and controlled. "Don't say—don't do nothin' around that guy. I don't want him to remember ya. I don't know what the hell that name was he told you, but he's the Red captain. Reaper."

Velma frowns, then looks incredulous. "What d'ya think he'd do?"

He clears his throat, tries to chuckle because he doesn't want to think about that. "I mean, with you lookin' like that, I guess I can't blame him for starin'. I—" He stops, as he comes to a realization. He can't, Ice thinks. He can't laugh off what very well might happen no matter how hard he tries to avoid it. "Even if you didn't look like that," he says, shaking his head. "Even if you weren't pretty. You'd still be with me. It wouldn't matter to him."

He doesn't have to say it. They both know what he's talking about.

"I don't know if he'd really do anythin'," he says, eyes locked with hers, "but—look, I trust him a lot less than I did the Jets, an' if _they_ could do somethin' like that to a gang captain's girl…"

Velma's face is set in an expression Ice doesn't like. "I ain't some wiltin' flower ya need to put under glass, Ice."

"Yeah, well, neither was that Shark girl, from what I remember," says Ice. That dance. That last dance, when none of them thought anything like this could ever happen to them. "An' it still happened."

Velma's looks stricken. "That's different."

"Is it?" Ice asks. He's never wanted to believe someone so much in his life. And yet— "It'd be one less worry," he says, willing her to understand. "Please."

After a moment, Velma reaches forward, her expression softer. "I'll be careful, Ice," she says gently. "I promise."

Ice exhales, only a little relieved, and takes her hand. "That's all I'm askin'."

The walk home is stilted, awkward, mostly filled by Velma telling him about Rosalia, that Shark girl. Apparently she babysits for Izzy sometimes and gets on well with both twins, though how that happened Velma has no clue. Still, though, the girl is nice, if a bit chatty. They'll probably be seeing more of her now, and—

Ice barely hears any of it. He hasn't thought about it—has tried so hard not to think about it—that sometimes he almost forgets what happened. He's pushed it away, he knows. He's concentrated on the Jets' part in it, because that is what he has to concern himself with. But the fact is that what almost happened to Anita could happen to any gang member's girl. To Graziella, to Clarice. Bernice and Pauline. Maybe even Minnie.

But not to Velma, he thinks, gripping her hand tighter. Even if he has to personally take out every single sonofabitch Red in the city. Not his girl. Never.

.

"Look, Anybodys," he says the next day, "I got somethin' I need ya to do. This's real important. Maybe more'n anything I ever asked ya to do."

Anybodys's eyes light up. "Gee, Ice, what is it?"

He takes a deep breath. "I need ya to—stick close to Vee for awhile."

The girl's face twitches, and Ice remembers that she's never really gotten along with the Jets' girls, except Minnie. "_What_?"

He shrugs, not knowing what else to do, not knowing how to explain this. "Just—keep an eye on her, is all I'm askin'."

Anybodys's face is wary. "Gee, Daddy-O, I know you're over the moon about her, but—ain't that takin' it a little far?" She frowns. "An' if it's 'cause ya want me to spy on her or somethin', I gotta say, I don't—"

Ice shakes his head. "It ain't that."

"Then what is it?" Anybodys wants to know, her small, narrow face puzzled.

At first Ice isn't going to tell her, doesn't want to remind her of what happened back in June. She's a girl, after all, and for the first time it strikes him that this might be something she needs to be careful about, too.

But then he looks at her determined expression, remembers that she has always done everything he's asked of her. Even if she didn't like it. She's been a good Jet, and deserves an explanation.

"That girl," he says at last. "Bernardo's girl."

Anybodys frowns. "Why—"

"You know why," he says, keeping his voice as gentle as he can. He still remembers the absolute terror in the tomboy's eyes, how for once she didn't know what to say because what can you say when you're trying to explain the unexplainable?

"_They were gonna—if Doc hadna come in, they woulda—"_

Anybody's blue eyes shoot wide open, and Ice swears he sees her bottom lip tremble for the first time since that summer night. "Reaper?"

Ice nods. "We ran into him at the dance last night. I don't know what he'd do. Any of 'em. I ain't riskin' it."

Anybodys chews her lip for a moment, then looks up at him. "Don't worry, Ice," she says, her voice quiet. "I won't let ya down."

"Hey," he says, catching her arm as she moves to go.

She glances up, her face still troubled. "Yeah?"

He doesn't quite know how to say it to someone who for the past nine months has been one of the guys. "You be careful, too, kid. We wouldn't want nothin' to happen to ya."

And for a moment, there's a flash of—softness? gratitude? he can't tell—in her expression as she gazes up at him. "Ya mean it?"

He shrugs, a little uncomfortable. "'Course. You're one of us."

Something different flickers through her eyes now, but before he can catch hold of it, she shrugs.

"Just like I always wanted," she says, and is off.

.

"Fuck," says Joyboy as he crashes into Doc's. Ice is unnerved to see him expel a mouthful of reddish spit. "What the hell is goin' on?"

"You okay, buddy-boy?" asks Snowboy, getting up and hurrying to his twin's side.

"Yeah," says Joyboy, still in that short, terse voice. "They kept punchin' me in the mouth. Coupla teeth feel loose, but they're okay."

"What happened?" asks Ice, keeping his voice at a dead calm. "The Reds?"

Joyboy nods. "Five of 'em." He glances at Ice, his face twisting. "In neutral territory. Only gave up when a squad car came by."

A yelp of outrage comes from Baby John's corner. "Them lousy Commie—"

"I told him," Ice says, barely controlling his anger, "I told him. Neutral territory means _neutral territory_."

"Rules don't mean _nothin'_ to these bastards," explodes Action, hammering his fists on the counter. "Well, soon's I get holda one-a _them_ they'll see who they're dealin' with, an' if any-a those motherf—"

"Cool it," snaps Ice, though he's having just as hard of a time doing that as any of the Jets in the candy store. "Okay, we're gonna set up a coupla ambushes of our own, where they won't be expectin' it. _We're_ gonna tell 'em when, where, an' who's gonna be fightin', not them. Got it?"

A low growl from the Jets answers him, and Ice, looking around at his gang, expects to feel happy that they're united. When they're all together, he knows, there's nothing the Jets can't do.

Instead he just feels a ball of anger in his stomach that pushes him on. When they do meet the Reds again, Ice thinks, clenching his fists, he knows exactly who his target will be. "We do what they'd do for us," he says, seeing that look in Reaper's eyes once more. "So no holdin' back."

But no matter how hard he tries, Ice never seems to be able to get to Reaper. Sometimes it's the two or three younger Reds who swarm up and get in his way, and sometimes it's the one called Saber, but more often it's Claw. It's like he knows that the Jet captain is out to get him, Ice thinks, frustrated, and is just _playing_ with him.

It's weeks after the war with the Reds intensified and the Jets are lying in wait by the abandoned tire factory. Reaper, his face settled in that familiar expression of casual ownership, has just appeared across the street and as Ice sees him, the Jet feels a burst of white-hot rage flare inside him. This time, he thinks, his anger settling into cold fury, this time he will get to Reaper and make it very clear that he is to stay away from everything that is Ice's.

"Now?" Anybodys hisses from his left, and Ice snaps his fingers.

"Now."

The Jets erupt out of the alley and toward the Soviet, who turns and, incredibly, smiles. Ice feels that maddening desire to wipe the presumption right off his face when he slows, his inherent caution taking over—why isn't Reaper worried, why doesn't he even look surprised—

And before he can even look around, seven other Soviets are there, fists up and ready and aiming for the Jets. How, wonders Ice, gritting his teeth as the Jets launch themselves at the Reds, _how_ did he figure it out—

That doesn't matter, he thinks in the back of his mind, focusing on Reaper and the clear path to him. What matters now is—

But before he can move to the Red captain, Claw steps in front of him, fists raised, a grin dancing over his scarred face. And Ice utters every silent curse he knows, because Claw is the best fighter and so is Ice and if he doesn't want to let the Red loose on the other Jets, he'll have to take Claw out first. And Reaper knows it.

"Get outta my way," Ice snarls, rage building inside of him.

And Claw, teeth bared and green eyes glinting, doesn't move. "Make me."

.

In the end, as all of them have known since the beginning, it comes down to the twelve Jets, the nine Reds, and what one small shadow has figured out about the Soviets' headquarters.

As they step into the dim warehouse down at the docks, Ice glances around. It's just like Anybodys said: tables, crates, cards. The Reds, holding small glasses. Smoke drifting lazily in the air. And something Anybodys never mentioned.

"These are the Jets?"

The accented voice is low, unimpressed, and female. Peering in the darkness, Ice can just barely make out the silhouettes of four girls, lit by their cigarettes.

"Yeah," sneers Action before Ice can stop him, "an' if you broads knew what was good for ya, you wouldn't be hangin' around while we was here. You might not like it."

Claw jerks forward with a growl, but Reaper, sitting by the biggest table, holds his hand up. "Ice."

"We're here to talk," the Jet captain says, and nods toward the girls. "We ain't interested in them. Get 'em out."

Reaper's gaze doesn't waver, but Ice doesn't care what he might be thinking. He is telling the truth: no matter what the Reds and their captain might stoop to, the Jets have gone down this route before and Ice isn't giving another gang any reason for revenge. He intends to keep his promise to Velma. The girls are off limits, no matter what.

At last Reaper nods, and the four Soviet girls file out past the Jets, who, at a look from Ice, let them pass in peace. They're beautiful, in that cold, detached way, he thinks, but they look like they could freeze you with a glance.

With them gone, Reaper crosses his arms. "Well?"

"War council," says Ice without any preamble. "We're settlin' this, once an' for all."

Reaper glances back at Saber, who shrugs, and turns back to Ice, raising one eyebrow. "You had to have the police stop us from running you out the last time, even though you tried to surprise us. Why should we bother?"

"The police came an' broke it up 'cause they've been watchin' us for a year," Ice says, his voice tight. "It's got nothin' to do with us not wantin' to fight."

"An' _win_," Anybodys adds, jutting her chin out. "'Less, a-course, you're too _scared_."

Reaper gazes from her to Ice, and this time when he speaks there is the slightest hint of anger. "We are not the ones who must ask a girl to fight our battles."

"Hey!" protests A-Rab, indignant, before Ice clears his throat.

"She's a Jet," he says. "That's all that you gotta worry about."

Again Reaper glances at Saber, before he shakes his head. "You keep talking about how there are rules," says the captain, eyes glinting. "Why don't you tell us how it is done, then?"

"Tomorrow. After dark," Ice says. It's only when Big Deal, on his right, shifts his weight that Ice recognizes the words. Riff, and his last war council. Ice, and his first as leader.

It doesn't matter, he thinks uncomfortably. That's the only thing that will be the same. Nighttime _is_ better for rumbles, anyway. "Now the place. We was thinkin'—"

"How about under the highway?" says Reaper, and Ice feels a jolt of stomach-churning nausea shoot through him. No. No. Never there, never again. He glances back at the Jets, most of whom look as stricken as he feels. He tears his eyes away and meets Reaper's taunting gaze again.

"Actually," says Ice, forcing his voice to stay steady, "we were thinkin' the railyard."

"No," says Reaper, who regards him for a long moment, gray eyes calculating. No one expects what he says next:

"The roof of the police station."

"What are ya, nuts?" bursts out Action, springing forward, only to be grabbed by Big Deal. That doesn't stop his mouth, though. "I don't know about you Commie crazies, but we ain't that dumb!"

Ice ignores him, his eyes narrowed. "Why there?"

Reaper grins. "It is the last place they will be looking, yes?"

Ice considers this. It's true. And yet—

"Cops ain't never caught us," interjects the smallest one, Pinch, his sharp voice jarringly American. "An' if they did—"

"We would say their friends had just let us go. From questioning, you see," says the blond Switch, with an angel-faced smile. "They would believe it."

"We have done it, many times," says Saber, his gaze confident. "We even rumbled with the Untouchables up there."

"Really?" ventures Baby John, before Anybodys shoves him.

Claw glances over at him, and releases a slow chuckle. His voice is low and dark, and Ice can see Baby John shrink at the sight of the long scar running up the Red's face. "They were not so untouchable there."

Ice turns around to look at Big Deal, who shrugs. The Soviets make a good case for the stationhouse. It's a short drop and run from there to plenty of hideouts, and if the cops suspect anything about a rumble, they'll all be out of the place and on the streets. It's ingenious, really. Though in the back of his mind he's wary about any place that the Reds have used, he doesn't have any real concrete reason to say no.

"Okay," he says. "Weapons."

Reaper gives him a deliberate smile, and this time, he doesn't say anything at all, just reaches into his pocket, draws out a long ivory handle, and lays the blade on the table in front of him.

"No," Ice says, voice flat. He has let Reaper decide everything else for just this moment. "No knives."

Claw snorts, and the light flashes off a glint of gold in his mouth. "What, are you afraid?"

Ice shakes his head, doesn't look down. "No. But no knives."

Reaper watches him for a moment, and Ice can't read what he's thinking behind those dark eyes. Finally, the captain gives a dismissive shrug. "Pipes, then."

Pipes. They might bleed, a little, and certainly they'll bruise, but they won't die, not with those. Ice steps forward and extends his hand, remembering, as he does, Riff's belief that it's always important to do the thing properly. After all, there's no other reason for this. "Pipes."

They shake, and Reaper inclines his head, that slow smile spreading over his face. "Til tomorrow."

Tomorrow, Ice thinks, breathing in deep, when he'll see to it that Reaper never has a reason to give them that smile again.

"Tomorrow," he says, and without another word leads the Jets out into the city, and the night.


	24. the hands of the clock

Disclaimer: Those WSS copyrighters are more awesome than ever because now the movie is going to be on BLU-RAY with even more goodies than the DVD special edition! Yesss.

Note: Blah, so much for getting chapters out earlier. -_- As has come to be all too familiar, this chapter exploded and I had to split it in half to get everything in. May you never be cursed with exploding fanfics. -_- Thankfully, since I had some leeway with 25-27, the fic will still be 30 chapters (there have been a couple chapter title changes, though). I also got a new job with much better hours and traffic a couple weeks ago, so between that and having the next half/chapter 90% done, the next update will be within a week! I may die of shock, haha. Anyway, I really hope you enjoy the chapter. If you feel the need for musical accompaniment, I'd highly suggest Dmitri Shostakovich's Symphony No. 5 in D minor, movements 1, 3, and 4. Thanks for your patience, and thank you for reading. :)

Proper credit: The previously mentioned composer, and Stephen King! On Writing is very inspirational.

—viennacantabile

* * *

fell the angels

twenty-four : the hands of the clock

.

No time to grieve for roses, when the forests are burning.

—Juliusz Słowacki

.

Not just the space we call consciousness, but the space where we retire in order to avoid a feeling, the touch of a lover, the pleas of a friend, the threat of intimacy. Distance. Darkness dotted by stars.

—William H. Gass, Reading Rilke

.

Morning.

Ice sits still and quiet at the edge of the window, peering out into the sky. He's been up for hours, waiting, staring into a dim foggy grayness he can hardly tell from the buildings, but there isn't any sun today. It looks like it might rain later, some distant part of him thinks as he registers the faint noise of cars passing by. He can just see the curve of the highway from here, cutting through the clouds.

Ice isn't a dreamer. In twenty years he's never wanted to know, has never once been the kind of person who dreams of what lies beyond the horizon, like Tony. He can't afford it. But now—now Ice stares out at the open road buried in the sky and thinks about where it leads. Where it ends.

He is not afraid. But still he wonders what it's like, out of the city. He wonders if it's different. He wonders if he could breathe out there.

"Ice?"

Her voice seems so far away that it takes him a moment to turn around and see her, standing like a ghost at his side. "Vee."

"How long've you been up?" she asks, drawing her robe closer to her body and stifling a yawn. "Did you sleep at all?"

"Enough," he shrugs, and glances back out the window, wishing the sun would come out. It won't make a difference, he knows, or shouldn't, but—even so.

"I think my parents're awake," Velma says. "But if ya want somethin' to eat I can—"

He shakes his head. It's hours and hours before he has to worry about full stomachs and punches to the gut but still he doesn't want anything. "Maybe later."

She stiffens, and as her voice goes flat Ice realizes that she's only now remembering what day it is. "Oh. Right."

Ice turns to face her, and studies the way her hand tucks her hair behind her ear, the way her gaze skitters away from his. He's explained the whole thing to her twice since climbing into her room last night, and he knows she understands, or at least as much as she ever will, but it doesn't make leaving any easier. Sunset. The stationhouse. Pipes. The Reds. And Reaper. If any girl really understood all that it'd be a miracle.

"Listen," he says, taking her hand, "don't come by Doc's later. Stay home, or with Graz and the kid or somethin'. I don't want you walkin' around by yourself. Not today."

Velma stares out the window, and he'd almost believe it doesn't matter to her if not for the way she's folded her arms tight against her waist, knuckles showing white. "Okay."

She still won't look at him. He doesn't know if that's better or worse than her trying to talk him out of it, if this controlled resignation she's learned isn't somehow more frightening. Velma might be from the East Side but in the almost two years since she's moved here she's become as good at this as any gang leader's girl as he's ever seen. Maybe better, even, if it comes to that, because in the end, no matter what they say, they never really stop trying to hold you back.

Ice waits for another moment, then figures out she's not going to say anything he wants to hear. "I better go," he says at last. He can't think about this right now, not when so much else is at stake. It's time to go. To plan, and to wait, and later—to win. "The guys'll be formin' up."

He's just landed on the fire escape when a hand on his shoulder pulls him back. Velma, framed in the window, gazes at him, and she says just two words.

"Come back."

"I will," Ice says, his words as strong and sure as he can make them. "I will, Vee, I swear."

"You'd better," she says, and for a moment, her expression wavers and she inhales, biting her lip. "God, Ice, if you don't I swear there won't be enough left for the Reds when I'm done with you—"

He kisses her then, and rips himself away almost as soon as he does, and it's not until he's down the fire escape and around the corner and out of sight of her window that Ice stops and clenches his teeth, fists, heart thudding in his chest. He will. He will. He has to.

"See ya," he says to the air.

And for the first time in almost two years there is no answer.

.

"Nothin'," reports Anybodys at noon, her mouth twisted up into a frown as she hurries into the candy store. "Went over the whole place with a fine-tooth comb, yesterday an' this mornin'. They got nothin' up there 'cept some junk piled up by the walls."

"Nothin'," repeats Ice, turning this over in his mind. He doesn't buy it. Not with this gang. He glances around Doc's at the Jets. Everyone but Tiger and Baby John is already here, lounging on chairs and stools, waiting out the hours. If not for the occasional show of nerves, it could be any other day, any other moment.

"That's almost worse," Big Deal says, his voice cautious. "These guys, I'd rather know what they was up to."

"You'n me both, buddy," says Ice, furrowing his brow. The roof of the police station. It's too good a location, and the reasons for picking it make too much sense. He doesn't quite trust it. And he definitely doesn't trust the Reds, let alone Reaper.

Reaper.

Why? he wonders, his mind coming back to the question that has occurred to him more and more over the last month. Why did Reaper eliminate the other two gangs if all he wanted was the territory? Why didn't he just let the Jets, the Musclers, and the Vipers fight and finish each other off? Why didn't he just take Ice out to begin with? It's what Ice would have done. Why did Reaper wait?

It shouldn't matter, he thinks, passing his hand over his eyes. It shouldn't, except that none of it makes sense, any of it, and if there is some clue to the way the Soviets work that will help the Jets win, then Ice will take it.

"Ya think they're gonna shove us off the top or somethin'?" asks Snowboy, tipping back his chair and unwrapping his lollipop.

"I would," snickers A-Rab, aiming a kick at the chair. Snowboy makes an impressive show of flailing around before just barely regaining his balance. Joyboy takes the opportunity to swipe the lollipop right out of his twin's hand and pop it in his own mouth.

Snowboy, feet tipping back onto the floor, glances at his empty hand and blinks. "Yeah, well, you'd probably land in the garbage can doin' it," he says, giving a philosophical shrug. "Anybody got some comics?"

"Where's the kid, anyway?" asks Action, rubbing his fist against his palm. He's as tense as ever, and Ice hopes, against all odds, that they make it through the next half-day without him exploding. They'll need him later. "He playin' hooky, or what?"

"Prob'ly with Minnie," Mouthpiece says cheerfully. "Playin' mice or somethin'."

Action snorts. "He would. Jesus, I bet he's off autographin' PR alleys again."

Ice stares at the table. PR alleys. It seems so long ago, he thinks, that they were setting up big plans for the Sharks. And it was, he realizes, startled. Ten months now. He glances around at the Jets, clumped around in their usual groups, seeing them with the eyes of a year ago. Mouthpiece, Tiger, and Gee-Tar in the back. Action, A-Rab, and Anybodys between the dartboard and the pinball machine. Snowboy and Joyboy at the counter. Ice and Big Deal at the corner table. All their names written up on the walls. Nothing's changed, everything's changed.

"Least he'd be doin' somethin'," says Anybodys, "not like some people who're sittin' around just talkin' about it."

Surprised, Ice looks up to see her narrow her eyes at Action, a flash of resentment in her gaze. Sure, she's used to talking that way to A-Rab and whichever Jet will let her, but even Anybodys knows better than to set Action off like that. Especially today.

The boy wheels around and starts for the girl with a growl. "Listen, you little—"

"Cool it," Ice says, getting to his feet as a defiant Anybodys holds her ground. "Both-a ya."

Action glares at him. "Just 'cause you let her hang around don't mean she can talk to me like that!"

"Yeah, well," says Ice, staring right back as the rest of the Jets sit up, "I let her hang around 'cause she's a Jet. Same for you." He glances at Anybodys. "Action's here 'stead of out causin' trouble 'cause that's where I told him to be. He followed orders, so did you."

Anybodys looks down at her feet. "Yeah, so?"

"So," says Ice, "since you're both Jets, the _only_ people you're gonna be fightin' today are Reds. Got it?"

Neither of them move. And Ice shakes his head.

"You act like that, an' the Reds'll get ya for sure," he says. "An' 'less you get that, you're skippin' the rumble."

Action lets out a snort. "Like hell we're skippin' the rumble. You'd be two men down, an' they ain't no pushovers. You ain't that stupid."

"I mean it," Ice says, his voice grim. His gaze doesn't waver. "Ya gotta keep your heads, no matter what happens. If ya don't, it's too much of a risk, takin' ya."

Action, after a moment, is the first to give in. "Fine," he mutters, and stalks off to yank the darts off the board as the other Jets lose interest. Anybodys, on the other hand, looks wary.

"Fight the Reds later. That's orders, right?"

"Yeah," says Ice. "An' look out for the other Jets." He waits for another retort from the girl, but she just looks away.

"Okay."

"You forgot one," growls Action, and Ice looks up just in time to see him take aim.

"Yeah?" asks Ice. "What?"

The dart rams into the bulls-eye.

"Win."

.

About an hour or two after noon Big Deal nudges Ice. "Lunch?"

Ice shrugs. "Yeah, if ya think we can leave 'em."

This isn't as ready a yes as he'd like. The Jets, cooped up in the dark candy store, have gotten edgier since Action and Anybodys's near-fight. Snowboy's jokes are sounding forced. A-Rab's cackle is a little too loud. And Action's darts are starting to bury themselves into the wall.

Big Deal nods. "Maybe half an hour. They wouldn't mess around too much in Doc's. He's the only one older'n twenty who don't chase us off with a stick every time we come by." He glances around. "Where is Doc, anyway?"

"Don't know," says Ice, but he does. The old man isn't dumb, after all, and it wouldn't be too hard to figure out what's going to happen tonight. Maybe he just doesn't want the reminder. "Okay, we'll go someplace close."

They leave Action and Joyboy loosening the screws on their pipes. The idea, Snowboy has explained, is to get them to stick up, like nails. The hit'll hurt even more but still count as just pipes. Bending, not breaking. Even though it doesn't seem like the Reds care much about rules anyway.

"So," Big Deal says once they're settled in at his brother-in-law's restaurant, "what d'ya figure them for?"

Ice doesn't have to ask who. "Hell if I know. They're crazy Soviets; that's bad enough."

Big Deal takes a bite of his burger. "Why here, though?" he asks, dipping a fry into ketchup. "Mosta them don't go to our school, an' the docks ain't too close, neither. Why bother?"

Ice shakes his head. "Wish I knew why. They don't go by the rules, though, so I guess poachin' on some territory they don't need makes some sorta sense." He thinks for a moment, surprised. "Even the Sharks followed the rules."

His lieutenant snorts. "Sure. They wanted to be Americans, right? The Reds don't." He gestures with his burger. "You gonna eat or what?"

Ice, looking down at his full plate, shrugs. "Guess I ain't that hungry."

"Suit yourself," his lieutenant says, and tosses a fry back. "We got ages 'til it gets dark."

Ice half-smiles. "I can't ever figure out if the day goes quicker or slower when there's rumbles later."

"Both," says Big Deal, wiping ketchup off his face. He hesitates. "I guess it don't matter. Since it always ends up gettin' here the same way anyway."

Ice thinks of shivering in the heat of the garage and takes a long sip of water. "Jesus," he says, shaking his head. "I hope not."

.

By the time they get back, three girls are sitting around Doc's.

It's just Pauline, Clarice, and Minnie today. Graziella and Bernice are probably on baby duty, and Velma, well—

He's glad he told her to stay away, Ice thinks, because if he hadn't, it would have been so much harder acting as though nothing is wrong. And it is wrong. He doesn't want to do this. He doesn't have a choice, though. And if they back out now—

For the other Jets, anyway, the girls are a welcome distraction. Clarice busies herself with Big Deal, and Pauline, being Pauline, takes care of the rest while a disgusted Anybodys makes faces at them. It takes Ice a moment, though to realize that Minnie is standing in front of him, her face worried.

"Ice," she says, "I haven't seen Johnny all day."

The Jet captain stares up at her. "Ya haven't?"

"No," she says, twisting her hands. "Not once. You don't think one of the Communists—"

"Ain't no reason to," says Ice, his voice firm. He assumes Minnie knows about the rumble, though it wouldn't be unlike the girls to try and hide it from her. By now, though, Ice is pretty sure Minnie gets that life isn't all sunshine and roses and he figures she's here for the same reason Clarice is. "Not when they've got tonight. He's probably just off doin' somethin' for his ma or Doc or someone."

"Oh, yes," Minnie says, her gaze falling. "He—he'll be all right tonight, though, won't he? You'll take care of him?"

"Sure," he says, turning up the corners of his mouth. "He won't need it—but he's a Jet an' we take care-a Jets around here, Minnie."

The smile on his face feels pasted on and wrong, but Minnie, who has perked back up, doesn't seem to notice. "Thank you, Ice."

She believes him, he thinks, amazed, she really believes him. Well, that's one person, at least.

"You'll win," she says. "I know it."

Ice picks up the deck of cards and shuffles before he looks up and tries to remember the endless optimism of that summer.

"Yeah," he says, his gaze drifting to the cellar door. What he remembers, now and always, is the flicker of a cigarette lighter in the darkness. "Count on it."

.

Around five-thirty, Tiger comes panting in, offering excuses about work and his kid and it's not that Ice doesn't believe him, but—

"Hey, Tiger," he says after the seventh apology, stopping him mid-sentence. "We got a rumble comin' up. Right, buddy-boy?

The redhead frowns. "Right, Daddy-O."

"So look, it ain't that I don't get it," Ice tells him, although that's stretching it a bit, "I do. It's just if you keep goin' over about all that other stuff while you're fightin', it'll slow ya down. Distract ya." It's as much a reminder for himself as it is for the other Jet. "You can't think about nothin' but the Reds from now on. Not work, not Graz, not your kid. Okay?"

Tiger looks confused for a moment, then nods, slowly. "Okay, Ice."

"Trust me," Ice says, thinking of the way Tony's fists shook under the highway that night. "You're better off."

"You believe that?" Big Deal asks in an undertone as Tiger plops down next to Mouthpiece.

"Yeah," says Ice. If he didn't it wouldn't be this hard. "I gotta."

.

He remembers this, too, Ice thinks a little while later as the girls flirt and the Jets crack jokes. The waiting, and the talking, and the laughing. Whiling away time, trying to hurry it up and slow it down all at once. And the tension threatening to boil up underneath it all.

"Will you _cut it out?_"

Ice, glancing over to where a livid Action is dumping a snickering Pauline out of his lap, sighs. He's been wondering how long Action would take her sudden habit of twirling her fingers in his hair. Not long, apparently. In any case… Ice checks his watch. It's probably time for the girls to be going, anyway.

When he snaps his fingers they huff and make faces but they don't argue. None of them, after all, is Graziella and by now they know that Ice means both what he says and doesn't say. Only Minnie lingers, for a moment.

"Good luck," she says, looking him straight in the eye.

"I'll tell him," says Ice, his mind already skipping ahead. "Don't worry."

"Oh, no," she says, then blushes when Ice glances at her. "I mean, yes, please do, but I mean you, too, Ice. Good luck."

Ice stares at her. He doesn't know how she does it, how she cares about absolutely everyone all the time. How it doesn't break her in half. "Yeah," he says slowly. There is another girl there in his mind, now. Another girl who used to be like Minnie, but lost all of that with a gunshot. "Thanks."

He can say all he likes about it not happening again, he thinks, but in the end, it would only take a moment. And all he can do is hope that luck is on their side tonight.

.

Baby John finally makes it in at a quarter to seven. He's not alone.

"So," Schrank says, towing the youngest Jet, who looks a little banged up, behind him. "Taking on the Commies, all by yourselves. How about that."

Ice's gaze darts to Baby John, who gives a covert shake of the head as Schrank dumps him onto a stool. _I didn't say nothin'_, he mouths, looking painfully earnest as ever, and from this the Jets take their cue.

"Why, it's our civic duty, Lieutenant!" Snowboy answers with a saintlike smile, then pauses. "_If_ we was to be doin' somethin' about the dangers of communism, sir. Which we wasn't. Was we, Jets?"

"Yeah," A-Rab cackles. "We're good little boys. We wait for _permission_ to do our good deeds, see? Now how's about givin' it to us? We clean up real nice, y'know."

Schrank isn't amused. Leaning forward, he speaks through gritted teeth. "What I'm doing is giving you permission to spill your guts before the Commies do it for you." He shakes his head. "What, you think I want more dead kids? Soviets taking over the beat? Tell me what you're planning, and I'll clear the Reds outta here for you. Scout's honor."

If Ice were a different kind of guy—someone like Schrank, someone who never belonged in a gang at all, never understood what it meant—he'd sing like a bird right now. Tell him about the Soviets. About Reaper. Shift the blame. Let the cops take care of a gang that wants to take care of the Jets.

But he's not, and if there's only one thing Ice has learned from his years in the gang, it's that you can't trust a cop. So he just shrugs.

"I never met a decent boy scout in my life, Lieutenant. So I don't know what you're talkin' about." He doesn't even try to extend his smile to his eyes. "I don't guess you do, neither."

Schrank's jaw clenches, and Ice can tell just how much the detective wants to hit him. Go ahead, he thinks, the blood rushing through his veins as he realizes what it must be like to be Action all the time. You punch first, and it's just self-defense, right?

But the lieutenant doesn't. Instead he leans forward, snarls through gritted teeth.

"You kids," he says, looking around at all of them, voice rising. "You goddamn kids. You have knives and guns, sure, but you don't have brains, do ya? Because you never learn. Fine," he spits, "_fine_. I've been too soft with you hooligans, anyway. You'd better watch it tonight," he says, eyes narrowed, "because if I find you and those Commie kids doing anything more than playing hopscotch? _I might just help finish you off myself_."

And he stalks out of the candy store. Ice, watching him go, keeps his face still until he's sure the lieutenant is gone.

"Geez Louise," says Anybodys with a snort. "What crawled up his ass and died?"

"Sure we can't go for him instead, Ice?" asks A-Rab, a sullen look on his face. "Commie or not, none-a those Reds got a mouth like Schrank."

Ice shakes his head. "He's just tryin' to scare us, is all. Baby John, what happened?"

"He picked me up this morning," the kid says, wiping some of the dirt from his face with his sleeve. "Said he wanted to know why we was suddenly gettin' all patriotic. He already knew," Baby John adds quickly. "I didn't tell him nothin'. He already knew."

Ice sighs. It's not unexpected, given the increase of police activity lately, but it does complicate things a little. "Looks like the walls do got ears. Some do-gooder musta seen us down by the docks an' gotten suspicious."

"It don't matter," says Action, shoving his last dart into the board as he hurries over. "Schrank just better hope he don't come near us tonight."

"He definitely don't know the place," Baby John says, brightening. "He was radioin' Krupke 'bout covering the docks an' the Park on the way over."

"Whaddaya know," says Anybodys, and Ice could swear he sees a tiny gleam of triumph in her eyes. "He _was_ off bein' useful."

"Yeah," says Ice, before Action has time to do anything, "an' now he's here, so let's talk the rumble."

All across the room, the Jets sit up and scoot forward with interested gazes.

"Yeah? What's your plan, big man?" asks Action, cracking his knuckles. Ice gives him a sharp glance, then decides to let it slide. At any other time it'd sound like a challenge, but even Action wouldn't pull a fast one right before a rumble. He's nervous, they're all nervous. It's to be expected.

"Right. Here's what we do," Ice says, leaning forward. "Action, I want you an' Big Deal on Claw. Do whatever ya gotta do, but get him outta commission so's he can't sneak up on us later. Snowboy, Joyboy, you take Razor. I hear he's real smart, but he's skinny, too, so I figure he ain't a match for you both."

The twins nod, trading identical grins, and Ice glances toward the back, toward the Jets whose size will match their opponents'. "Tiger and Mouthpiece get Saber and Blade. Those Reds are good, but they don't got a lotta practice fightin' you two an' that'll keep 'em guessin' long enough for you to take 'em out. Tiger, you used to play baseball?"

"Yeah," says the redhead. "Long enough to learn how to swing a bat, anyhow."

"Close enough to a pipe. Give Mouthpiece a couple pointers," orders Ice, satisfied, and turns to Gee-Tar. "Pick's yours. He's little, but I've seen him with that ice pick he got his name from an' I don't guess he's gonna leave that thing at home today. You got the better reach. Don't let him close enough to use it."

Ice turns to the kids. "A-Rab, you do what you do best. Go for Snapper an' mouth off, get him so mad he can't see straight, let alone land a punch on ya, an' then get him. Anybodys, Baby John—you take care of Pinch an' Switch, in that order."

Anybodys slumps against the pole. "Aww, Ice, can't I go for Claw, too? Whalin' on that mouthy little brat's almost as bad as whalin' on the girly blond one!"

Baby John looks offended. "Hey!"

"Not you, the Commie kid you're s'posed to be gettin'," Anybodys says, rolling her eyes as A-Rab cracks up and even Action snorts. "C'mon, Ice!"

"No," says the Jet captain, shaking his head, amused in spite of himself. "That kid's small enough to run around an' cause trouble for all of us while we're tryin' to fight. He's done it before. I ain't gonna let us go down just 'cause we didn't take care-a him, too." He half-smiles. "Anyway no one else's quick enough to keep up with him."

"Well—what about you?" asks Anybodys swiftly, sounding a little less miffed. "You just gonna sit around smellin' roses or what?"

"I'm gonna take out Reaper," Ice says, determination flooding him. "One way or another."

Big Deal lets out a low whistle. "Cap, I think you oughta be more worried about that Claw character," he says, looking uneasy. "Reaper's bad, sure, but Claw's got a couple screws loose, the way he runs around takin' whacks at us. He don't even notice when he gets hit."

Action snorts. "Well, if you're chicken, I can take him."

"I ain't chicken," Big Deal says, shaking his head. "I just don't wanna end up with more smile than I already got, is all."

"No," says Ice, keeping his gaze level. He's gone over and over this, and keeping to the plan is how they can win. He's sure of it. "Claw's a piece-a work, but he ain't nothin' without Reaper. Does whatever he says. We get Reaper outta the way, an' Claw an' the Reds'll be runnin' scared." He clears his throat. "An' between the two of you, Claw don't stand a chance."

Ice watches as the Jets absorb this, trading chuckles and glances. Most of them don't look any more worried than they did before their last rumble, he thinks. They believe they'll win. Just like he always used to.

"One question," says Big Deal, who looks mostly reassured. "We stickin' to pipes an' only pipes?"

Ice has thought long and hard about this, and though it doesn't sit well with him he knows there's only one answer.

"No," he says. "I ain't dumb enough to think they will, so we ain't gonna neither. But," he says, sharpening his voice, "same as always. It ain't gonna be us who starts it. Once they do, we'll get 'em hard an' fast, Jets," he says, "an' we'll take 'em out."

Ice glances around. "We clear? About that, an' the plan?"

Nine heads nod, and the Jet captain gets to his feet.

"Now," he says, jerking his head toward the door, "we load up."

They don't go through the stairway down into the cellar. Instead, as they have always done, the Jets tramp outside, through the alley, and around the back to the rear entrance to their armory. Doc doesn't stay in the front so much, anymore, and he probably wouldn't hear them on the stairs from his room above the store, but even so, old habits die hard.

Ice waits til the other Jets have busied themselves in filling their pockets with weapons before asking. "What's goin' on, buddy-boy?"

Baby John looks up at him, a flush of guilt staining his cheeks. "Whaddaya mean, Daddy-O? I told ya everything that happened."

"Not that. You know what I mean," says Ice. He hasn't been able to put his finger on why, but Baby John has been acting different lately. It's not just that the kid didn't give up the dirt on the rumble, or that he's been holding his own against Action's taunts. Something else, too. "Doc been gettin' to ya or somethin'?"

Baby John jerks his head up. "He say somethin' to ya?"

In spite of himself, Ice is amused. "Nah. Just a guess."

The boy shrugs his shoulders, a helpless look on his face. "So I help him out at the store sometimes. He's old, Ice. An' he pays. Not much, but I get free Cokes," he adds. It seems almost an afterthought. "What's it matter?"

"It don't, I guess," says Ice, although for some reason—it doesn't bother him, exactly. It just makes him uneasy, especially when he remembers that Tony started out the same way. "Anyway I just wanted to know."

"Say, Ice," Baby John says, blue eyes wide. "Are you scared?"

Ice glances at him. He remembers wondering, a lifetime ago, whether he was ever like Baby John. And now he thinks he was, more than he or anyone else ever would have guessed.

"No," Baby John answers, his voice confident. "No, I know you ain't scared, Ice. You're the captain."

"Captains don't get scared, huh," Ice says with a half-smile. "Guess that's a good thing."

"Yeah," says the kid, sincere as ever. "Else I don't know _what_ we'd do."

Ice hides a wince. "Well," he says, "that's fine. Just—" He hesitates. "Remember we're countin' on you too today, buddy-boy. You an' everyone else." He half-smiles. "Minnie, too. She stopped by to wish ya luck."

Baby John turns red, but gives a stout nod. "Don't worry, Ice. I won't let ya down."

Ice gazes at him and sees how Baby John's face has lost some of its roundess in the last year, how his eyes have grown older. Baby John, too. No matter similar it all seems to the last rumble, here is a reminder that for better or worse, some things _have_ changed.

"Yeah," he says at last, looking away. "I know."

.

Ice is the last to grab his weapon, and just before he leaves the cellar he sees Doc's bent silhouette on the staircase.

Ice stops, half-hiding the pipe behind his back. But Doc has never needed his failing eyes to see what is right in front of him.

"Don't do this, Ice," he says, his face twisting.

And Ice lifts his shoulders and drops them again, helpless, because no matter what he does, no matter what he says, there is nothing he can do to stop it now.

"It's done, Doc."

"No," says the old man, shaking his head as Ice stares at him. "For you and the Jets, it never is."

Ice shifts his gaze to the wall across from him. "Bye, Doc," he says quietly, because he has no other answer. "See ya later."

As he backs into the alley, shuts the door, and rejoins the Jets, Action scowls.

"What took ya so long?"

"Nothin'," says the Jet captain, willing his mind past the underside of a highway and forward into the night. "Let's go."

.

They take the back alleys, skirting known patrol routes as they get closer and closer to the stationhouse. It's the perfect place for a rumble, sure, but the last thing they need is to walk right up to an officer and present themselves gift-wrapped for arrest. Brass knuckles, belts, and knives are easy enough to hide, but the Jets are young and they look like trouble, even without the pipes stuffed up their jacket sleeves. Even Snowboy wouldn't be able to talk his way out of that, Ice figures, and makes sure they keep to the shadows.

He can smell thunder in the air, and it makes him uneasy. Regardless of what he's told the Jets, he doesn't believe this will be the cut-and-dried fight he's given them. The Reds just don't work that way, and Big Deal is right: not knowing what Reaper's planning is worse.

They come soon enough to the place, one street over from the stationhouse, where Anybodys has assured him that the cops never check. The Jets stop, and as Ice turns to face them he takes in their bright, avid gazes and the air in his throat dies. Because this—this is the time when the captain is supposed to talk. Say something, anything, to fire up his gang and let them know this is their time, their place, their now. Their victory. And they are looking at him, expecting him to do it, and all Ice can think is that this was never supposed to be his job.

He swallows hard, trying to think. Riff. And Tony. How did they do it? How did they always know what to say?

In the end, he can only tell them the truth.

"I could tell you how the Reds've been sneakin' in, one by one," Ice says, his voice low and hard. He remembers a lighter, and two cigarettes. "Yeah. I could tell you how they've broken every gang rule in the book. I could tell you how they think everything is theirs. Including everything that's ours." He remembers the worst fear he's ever had, and drives his fist into his palm. Never. Never.

"But in the end it all comes down to this: there ain't room enough here for the both of us. One gang is going down. Us, or them." He pauses, locks eyes with every Jet. They're tense, pale, nervous, and sweating at last, waiting to hear what he has to say. What they have to do.

And in the end he doesn't even recognize the snarl that comes out of his throat:

"_So make it them_."


	25. the red and the black

Disclaimer: Reaper and his cohorts are my sick, twisted creations. Other than that, it's all theirs!

Note: Augh. I'm going to say that this was a really hard chapter to write in terms of wanting to get it right, and then mostly leave it at that. But if you only leave feedback on one chapter in this fic, this chapter might be the one to do it because I've been kind of terrified about the reaction since November. -.- On that note, hope you enjoy! ;)

Musical accompaniment: Very strong suggestions, in this order as you read. Especially the Shostakovich—it's just about the scariest piece I've ever heard. Written as a musical portrait of Stalin, if that gives you any idea. All of these are on YouTube, with links on my profile.

Sergei Prokofiev, Symphony No. 5 in B-flat Major, movement II. Allegro marcato  
Dmitri Shostakovich, Symphony No. 10 in E minor, movement II. Allegro  
Piotr Ilyich Tchaikovsky, "Pathetique" Symphony No. 6 in B minor, movement IV. Finale

Proper credit: Anybodys's role in this chapter—and let's face it, in most of this fic—is all **Bardess of Avon's** idea, and if you'd like to read more about the motivations behind her actions, I'd recommend her fic, _Seasons_. And now I have rambled for days and will shut up and let you read the chapter.

—viennacantabile

* * *

fell the angels

twenty-five : the red and the black

.

Anger's my meat; I sup upon myself,  
And so shall starve with feeding.

—William Shakespeare, _Coriolanus_

.

And they had to choose, had to face it, and whichever way they chose they still got hurt. And all the time he did not want to do it, did not know he did it, until afterwards… Maybe there were things in themselves men should not look at, just as there were things in the very deep bottom of the sea that it was better that men did not know about.

—James Jones, From Here to Eternity

.

The time is dusk, the place is set, and the weapon of choice is ready and waiting for his hand.

Ice and the Jets scale the fire escape in silence, mindful of just whose territory they're in now. If Schrank could see them now, Ice thinks with a half-smile as he checks his watch. Sneaking up the walls of police headquarters, where the lieutenant'd just about kill to get them permanently. It's almost a funny thought.

They're eight feet from the top when the fire escape ends and Ice glances to his left. "Anybodys."

"Gimme a boost," Anybodys hisses, and as Mouthpiece pushes her up she peers over the side of the wall before scrambling up all the way and disappearing from sight. They wait for a moment until she's back and shaking her head. "Nothin'."

Ice nods, and the rest of the Jets haul themselves up and onto the roof as quietly as possible. After one last glance around, he follows.

They've scouted it, mapped it as much as possible without tipping off the police, but actually being here and standing on the concrete of the roof is different. Anybodys is right: there isn't much up here, just some Coke bottles and cigarette butts lying stubbed out on the floor. And a door, standing up by the far end and leading into what must be the stairwell. Locked, of course, but almost a little building, slanted roof and all.

"Bottles," he says, and Joyboy detaches himself from his twin and heads over. Taking two, he smashes them against the wall and slides the jagged top halves into his pockets. The rest he swings over to the roof of the next building before coming back and handing one to Snowboy. Action, hearing the glass shatter, scowls.

"We coulda used those!"

"Worry about usin' what we got," Ice says, scanning the walls with a frown. It's the one weakness of the place. Exit routes. They've planned those, too, but he still doesn't like that their only real options are the fire escape—right against the stationhouse windows—and the roofs of the buildings next to them. He knows that the whole point of having the rumble here is that they won't _need_ exit routes, but still. It's a long drop to the street with the cops waiting for them and while he's worked just about every way this could go south, it's always the one thing you don't expect to go wrong that does.

"I can't see a goddamn thing," A-Rab says in the silence that follows, squinting at the clouded sunset. "How they gonna know when after dark is? It's been dark all day."

"Just like your brain, stupid," says Anybodys, but her heart doesn't seem into it. She, like everyone else, is waiting, muscles tensed and eyes sharp, and all of them know that the waiting, more than anything, is what drives you mad.

"Quiet," says Ice, more to distract them than anything else. "Check weapons."

The Jets slide the pipes out of their sleeves and loosen their backups in their pockets. Their pipes are all different, picked up from wherever they could nab one without getting caught, and chosen for whatever reason. Action's is dark, the screws jutting out all over just as Snowboy has instructed. Tiger's is flaking with rust. Anybodys's has a curved part at the end that almost looks like a handle. And Baby John's is painted blue and yellow. Jet colors.

Tiger, hefting his in his hands, takes a few practice swings. He does look like a baseball player, Ice thinks, a little reassured as he gets a better grip on his own. The pipe in Ice's hand is smooth and heavy, taken from the steel yard in one of their early expeditions, back when the Jets were still new. One of his first real finds, though he hasn't had much chance to use it. It's bright silver now, but in an hour it probably won't be anymore.

Fine, Ice thinks, taking a deep, slow breath. He lets it out just as carefully. It's nothing he can't handle. Fine.

But his left hand can't help reaching for the knife in his jeans. He hasn't used it in more than a year, and he doesn't intend to tonight, but Ice doesn't feel safe walking into this without a little insurance. Looking around at the other Jets, neither do they. A-Rab's screwdriver. Anybodys's crowbar. Even Mouthpiece has somehow picked up a police baton. It's almost funny, Ice thinks again as he stares at the letters _NYPD_ on the handle.

Only this time, the memory of three bodies still in his head, Ice doesn't smile at all.

.

The sun is just down when the Reds appear out of nowhere, shapes in the darkness.

"Ice," says their captain. In his hand is a pipe painted black, and immediately Ice thinks of his own, how it reflects what little light there is and how his opponent will be able to see it coming. The Soviet won't have to worry about that. Another complication.

"Reaper," the Jet returns.

"One last chance," the Red says, dark eyes steady. "We will not hold back."

Ice shakes his head, deliberate and slow. "Neither will we."

And Reaper takes three steps forward, so close to Ice that the Jet captain can feel his gang tense behind him. Ice stares straight into his dark gray eyes, says nothing.

"What you could have been," is all Reaper says, so quiet only Ice can hear him, before the Soviet shrugs, seemingly disappointed, and returns to the Reds. And Ice wonders again what game he is playing, and why.

But he can't think about that now, can't try and figure out what is almost certainly just an attempt to unnerve him and the Jets. This is it. This is down to the wire. There will be no offer to shake hands today, no last pep talk. They're as ready as they'll ever be, and all they can do now—

"All right," Ice says, his words ringing out into the silence. "Go."

And the rooftop explodes into action as the Jets and the Reds meet.

Ice has had his target marked for the last month, and he doesn't take his eyes off him now, but somehow Reaper slips away. He's there, ducking behind Claw, and then he's—not—

Ice feels a stinging blow to his shoulder and staggers a little before getting his feet under him and wheeling around. It's one of the big ones, Blade—but Mouthpiece was supposed to get him, he thinks, getting his own pipe around to block another swing, and he twists his head for the smallest second to see Tiger tugging the two little Reds off of the big blond Jet and oh, that's what—but—if they're taking Pick and Pinch, then who—

Blade lands another hit, this just barely missing his knee, and Ice, his leg throbbing, yanks his attention back to where it belongs. This guy is fast and strong but Ice isn't the captain of the Jets for nothing, and even though he's never played a day of Little League he's got a pretty good idea of where to hit. And when Ice aims straight at the Red's gut Blade goes down, gasping and choking and clutching his middle.

Any other time, any other day, Ice would take another swing, get him out of commission, but he doesn't have time for more than a kick to shove the Red out of his way now before getting a wall behind him and looking around.

Already he can see that everything's gone wrong. It hasn't even been five minutes since the rumble started up but nobody's where they're supposed to be. Tiger's managed to get Pick and Pinch off of Mouthpiece, who from the looks of it has just knocked out Pick, and Action's ripping into the skinny blond Soviet and Big Deal's running over to get Snapper off Gee-Tar and the kids—

The kids are teaming up on Claw, which is either brave or suicidal, because even three against one isn't close to fair with this guy. They're holding their own, though, keeping the Red busy, and that's all he can ask for.

That leaves the twins, Ice thinks, and turns just in time to see Joyboy get nailed in the mouth with Razor's pipe.

Fuck, he thinks as the Jet crashes to the ground, spattering blood, but Ice doesn't have time to do more because now Saber is on him and Ice has seen this guy fight, he's got to take him out—

By the time he knocks Saber to the concrete Snowboy's dug out one of Joyboy's bottles and sliced Razor across the stomach, not enough to kill him but enough to really hurt and Big Deal—shit—

His lieutenant is down, hand flying to an eye that's already swollen shut and purple, and Snapper's still coming with his pipe but Gee-Tar's there, blocking—

Where's Reaper?

Damn it, _Reaper_, Ice thinks, angry at himself for losing him, there's everyone but him but there's no time, he can't—

It's chaos. In the space of a minute, everything has changed again. Saber's fighting Action now, aiming strike after strike at his hands, and there's Blade again, up now and heading for Tiger—goddamn it, Ice should have taken them both out, he should have done a lot of things—and A-Rab and Baby John have lost the pipes and are swinging at Switch with all their might. The skinny Soviet kid seems to have gotten away from Action but that's no help against two Jets his own size. And it looks like Snapper and Gee-Tar are both down, both hurt, and Ice still can't see Reaper—_where the fuck is he?_

He only has the sound of a growl as a warning before Claw comes barreling at him.

Ice barely gets his pipe up in time to block the blow, but even so, the shock reverberates through his arms and into his body. Claw, he thinks, angry again, _Claw_, how could he have missed him? This—this guy is a real opponent, and he can't let his attention wander, can't look away for a second—

Claw backs up, trying to get enough room to rush him again with the hulking piece of metal in his hands, but Ice, dashing forward, pipe raised, isn't going to give it to him. And he waits for it—the rush, the high that always comes with fighting, real fighting, where you need every bit of adrenaline to push you through—but it never comes.

He's on his own now.

But it's all right, it's fine, it's working out okay because he's doing it, he's driving Claw back and the big Soviet is ducking, stumbling, and a couple more hits ought to finish it and then Reaper, he can go find Reaper—

Claw is still raining blows but Ice has to have gotten him somewhere because he's slower now, his size working against him, and there it is—Claw is raising his arms and once they're down Ice will have a clear shot to his head—now—

Ice ducks, feints, takes aim, and—

"_Ice!_"

He doesn't even know it's coming before something crashes into him, knocking him to the side and Ice, jolted but still on his feet, wheels around to see Anybodys stumble and nearly fall, and behind her, Reaper—and in his hand is the dull gleam of red on silver—

But his pipe was black, he thinks, confused, as time slows to a crawl, because it's always the one thing you don't expect. The one thing you're not looking for.

There's a long, jagged line of blood running down her forearm as the pipe drops uselessly from her hand, Ice notes in the back of his mind, and still Reaper moves forward, that insatiable smile on his face as he shoves the girl aside, the grip of the blade bone-white in his hand, and Ice, breathing hard and fast, drops his pipe and feels rage burst inside of him and _not again, not this time_—

Never again, he knows, and whatever it takes to keep that promise, he'll do.

Ice takes those three steps forward, reaches for the knife, grabs it—his skin meets the edge of the blade but he doesn't care, he doesn't care—thrusts blindly forward til he feels metal slice flesh and hears an agonized roar—and hurls it over the side of the roof as Reaper staggers back, his face a wash of red. He doesn't care about the blood he feels streaming down to his fingertips, he doesn't care that he could have used it again on the boy now stumbling back to his friends, all he knows is that he has to get it away, now, while he still can.

He remembers her voice, fast and breathless.

_Claw, he's a whole 'nother level-a crazy. Reaper, at least you see him carvin' ya. Claw, he does it up the back an' twists the knife to really work ya over._

The only time she ever got it wrong, Ice thinks, shaking. He feels sick, horrified, watching that bright red blood seep out of her arm. They're one and the same, those two, and he won't ever again be so naïve as to think otherwise.

But he can't freeze; he can't stop. He has to keep going and see this thing through to the bitter end. Whatever happens.

"Baby John!" he shouts, eyes darting around the madness of the roof.

But the younger boy is already there, jaw clenched and limbs quivering. "Yeah, chief?" he pants, his eyes fixed on Anybodys and the slick of blood flowing out of the gash in her skin.

Ice jerks his head at the girl. "Get her outta here. Doc's, or somethin'."

And for once, Baby John doesn't protest, just nods and is over to her in three seconds. But even spurting blood, Anybodys doesn't go quietly.

"Get offa me!" she snaps, then turns to Ice. "C'mon, Ice, I'm fine, I'll get 'em back, I—"

And Ice swings around and glares at her because he has no illusions anymore. As bad as this is it's about to get a lot worse. "Leave, goddamn it! That's an order!"

What little color she has left drains out of her face but he can't take it back; she saved his life, he's just trying to return the favor. Baby John takes advantage of the moment to haul her to the fire escape. A-Rab, too, goes along, and now they are down three men plus injuries but this has to end. Now.

There are so many times he should have died, he thinks, breathing hard. So many times it should have been him. How many times can he keep cheating fate?

Ice clenches his jaw and heads back toward the Reds, eyes narrowing. He is done with playing nice and trying to keep things clean. If this is the only way to win—

Fate, he thinks, hand moving to his jeans pocket, will have to wait one more time.

From the huddle on the other side of the roof, Claw sends him a dark, savage look, the grin wiped off his face, and starts forward to meet him with a snarl. But to Ice's surprise, Reaper, the left side of his face a nightmare, raises his hand.

"_Stoi_."

Ice doesn't know what this means, but the big Soviet stops dead in his tracks. He casts a final look of hatred at Ice, then hurries back to Reaper, kicking a couple Reds on the way to get them up and moving along. They don't linger.

Ice watches, not quite believing it, as the Soviets retreat back down the fire escape. Reaper is last, and though one side of his face is soaking through a makeshift bandage, one gray eye stares at him, intent.

"_Nedurno_," he says, and is gone.

.

"How did it go?" Velma asks, breathless, as he climbs in the window. "Is everythin' okay? It started rainin' a couple minutes ago an' I—"

"Yeah," he says, heading over and avoiding her anxious eyes. Is everyone okay, she means. "It's—well, it ain't over yet, but they won't be givin' us trouble for awhile."

He hears her quick intake of breath as Velma sees the bloodstained rag around his fingers. "Your hand—"

Ice shakes his head. "It's fine. Just a little sore, is all."

She kisses him then, urgent and dizzy and relieved, but all he sees are Riff and Tony and now Anybodys and he can't. He can't.

"Look—Vee," he says, putting his hands on her shoulders and drawing back, "I'm—kinda tired."

Velma is silent for a long while, and Ice, wiping his good hand on his pants, avoids her gaze.

"Okay," she finally says, her voice quiet. "Did I—is everything—"

"It's fine," Ice says, shaking his head. "It's got nothin' to do with you."

Velma doesn't say anything, only nods and sits down on the bed. It's not until he's stripping off his damp shirt that she reaches out and touches her fingertips to his bare skin.

"You oughta sleep, anyhow."

He just nods, images flickering through his head. A scar. A silver glint. A dress the color of blood. Doc. Goddamn it—

It never ends.

.

He is tired as hell that night but no matter what he does, he can't close his eyes.

He knows it's not over. Nothing is solved. Reaper is pretty badly wounded—from the looks of it, he'll have a scar to match Tank and King—but he'll recover soon enough and and even if by some miracle he doesn't, the Reds will have regrouped around Claw or Saber or any one of the Soviets who is strong enough to lead them. They aren't the Musclers, or the Vipers. There will be another rumble. It's just a question of when. Neither gang is in any shape to fight right now. Beyond Reaper's face, Ice is pretty sure he saw more than one banged-up Red running around with no clue what to do. And the Jets had barely gotten out of there, grabbing pipes and belts and anything else that might tie them to the scene, before the cops showed up. Probably, he thinks, tipped off by the blood dripping down the streets before the rain had washed it away.

They're mostly okay. Tiger and Snowboy got away with just a couple scratches, a split lip, but Action's hands are a ripped-up mess, and Big Deal's sporting a hell of a black eye. Mouthpiece got hit pretty hard in the head with a Red pipe, enough to make him even sillier than he usually is. Gee-Tar's wrist is busted. Joyboy lost a tooth from that hit to the mouth. Baby John and A-Rab are fine, but then, they were never the Jets' heavy guns, anyway. And Anybodys…

The kid is all right, Ice thinks, staring at the dim outline of Velma's body in the darkness. They'd gone to check Doc's and she was more mad at being dragged off than hurt, but he can't get that moment out of his mind.

He reaches out, slow and gentle as he can so as not to wake her, and rests his hand on her cheek, tucks her hair behind her ear with his fingertips. Velma sleeps on, unmoving. What does she dream about? he wonders, staring at her. It's been so long since he dreamt of anything but the dark that he can't remember how it feels.

When he lifts his hand, there's a line of blood running down her face.

It's an electric shock. Ice snatches his hand back, feeling his stomach churn as scrambles back, legs tangled up in the sheets. No. No, he thinks, panicked, and almost tumbles off the bed before he wrenches free and grabs his shirt. Swinging his feet to the floor, he wraps it around his fingers and drops his head in his other hand, rubbing his eyes and trying to unsee it. Oh God oh God oh God—

It's nothing. Just the cuts from Reaper's knife, he thinks, shaking his head and trying to catch his breath, though he hadn't realized they'd opened up again. It's not her blood, it's not her wound. Only his, and he's never been funny about that before. It'll wash off and it'll be like it was never there in the first place. Just a bad dream.

And then he turns his head, risks a look—and the sight of it is enough to make him sick all over again.

Her eyes are open now, alarmed—there's no way she could have slept through all of this and she hasn't. "Ice?" she asks, shaking her head a little as she wakes up, "I thought I felt—"

He's shuddering, gasping for air, but he can't stop. He can't speak, can't do anything but keep shaking his head, over and over again. There is a tidal wave of force in him that threatens to break at any moment, and he has to keep it back, he has to.

Velma's fully awake and looking scared. "What's wrong?"

The blood is livid on her face and she doesn't even know it and again the fear hits him. This time he manages a few words. "Nothin', I just—I—"

"What happened?" she asks, reaching for him. "I knew somethin'—"

Ice forces himself to shake his head, take a deep breath, and regain some semblance of calm. He licks his cracked, drying lips and tries again. "I—just a bad dream. Vee, listen—"

Velma turns his face toward her but he can't even meet her eyes. "Ice, _what happened_?"

He shakes his head. This is not hers, she shouldn't have to carry it— "It don't matter."

"_The hell it don't_," she says, and he is surprised to hear the edge in her voice. "I love you. Don't that give me a right to know?"

Ice turns back to her. Her determined face is pale in the moonlight and still that dark stain is there. "I don't know," he says, feeling that crushing weight in his chest. All he wants to do is run, escape from everything he can't face. "I guess."

But Velma won't let him. "Ice, you can't—you can't do this," she says, blue eyes frustrated. "I can't help you if you don't tell me. If you could just—_trust_ me—"

Ice swings his body up and gets off the bed to pace across the floor. "I do trust you," he says, rubbing at his temples. It's so hard to breathe.

Velma puts her feet to the floor and joins him, resting her hand on his shoulder. "Then don't protect me. I can handle it."

He closes his eyes, the sound of long-ago shots echoing in his head. He can't hold it back any longer. "Fine," he says, giving up and staring her right in her blood-streaked face. "You really wanna know?"

"_Yes_," she insists, blue eyes frustrated. "Tell me, for God's sake—"

"I almost got stabbed."

The words fall, heavy, between them. She turns white—whatever it was she was expecting, Ice thinks, it wasn't that. "What?"

But he can't comfort her, can't even touch her or he'll snap. "I was fightin' with Claw—an' Reaper, he pulled a knife behind my back—an' Anybodys knocked me outta the way. She got a nasty slash on her arm for her trouble. She's okay," he says, as much to reassure himself as her. "Looks worse'n it is."

Velma hasn't moved. "You almost—"

"Yeah," he says, his throat dry. His head is pounding. "I know."

The admission seems to break Velma free from her stillness. She rushes forward and embraces him tightly, desperately. "Oh, God, Ice," she gasps, and he can hear the tears in her voice. "Ice—"

"I'm okay," he cuts in roughly. "Don't worry. Just gotta be more careful, is all."

She shakes her head rapidly and takes a shivering, trembling breath. "So you're okay this time, yeah, but what about the next?"

Ice rubs at his eyes, trying to clear the dark spots from his vision. "Next time I'll be fine. Just like this time."

Velma presses him closer. "If you keep goin' out an' fightin'—you're the Jet captain, you're a mark, Ice, an' sooner or later you'll get hit. That guy's still out there, and he—"

"No," he says again, more forcefully this time. "I hurt him, okay? I got his knife, an' I hurt him, an' he won't be so quick to come lookin' for trouble anymore."

Velma stares at him, her eyes wide. "You—"

"Look, I can take care-a myself," Ice says, reaching for her with his good hand, trying to remember how to be gentle again. "I told ya. I ain't gonna die on ya."

"_You don't know that_," she says, and it's like she knows everything he's been thinking over the past few months. "Every time you go out, I don't know if you'll come back again. Do you know what that's like?"

"Yeah," he says loudly, taking a step back and shaking himself free. "I do." He sees the hurt in her eyes, but it's easier to be mad at her than to direct his anger at the real culprit: himself, for letting this happen.

Velma shakes her head. "_No, you don't_," she says, and the pain in her voice is so hard to hear. "If it were me—"

Ice hisses. "It ain't," he says, unable to consider that. He can't stop clenching his fists because if he does the force just under the surface will break through and that just can't happen, not now, and not ever. "So it don't matter."

Velma reaches for him, eyes pleading. "Ice—listen to me—"

He doesn't want to hear it, doesn't want to think, doesn't want to do anything but make this all go away. "Vee, c'mon—"

But still, she presses, voice too soft and touch too gentle and he can't hear this anymore, he can't. The pressure in his head is building and oh, hell, he can't think. He can't fucking breathe. Riff. Tony. Anybodys. The Jets. Vee. Everything crashing down at once and _he has to make it stop_ somehow, any way he can. He is so frustrated that it's a reflex: in a moment, he is drawing his hand back and the world is blurring and he—

She stares at him, eyes wide, voice impossibly quiet. "Ice—"

Oh, God.

Ice drops his fist like a stone, suddenly terrified. "Vee, I—oh, Jesus, I—"

Velma's face is paper-white underneath that scarlet trickle but still she manages to take a step forward. "You didn't."

Ice sinks down to the bed and stares at his hand, numb. The cuts on his fingers have opened up yet again, and in the light his blood is black against his skin. And at that moment—all he can see is one dark-skinned girl. He didn't see it happen but this is how she must have looked. Afraid. And he can't look, can't face the girl in front of him, because now—now he sees he can destroy her in ways no one else can. "I could've. I almost did."

"But you didn't," she says, voice pleading, "don't you see? You _didn't_."

"How does that help?" he asks, taking a deep, shuddering breath. He keeps replaying the moment over and over again in his head, and each time he sees what could have happened. What could still be. Most of all he sees his mother.

"You stopped," she says with another step, voice urgent. "That's what counts. And that's why you're not—you're not like_him_—"

He flinches, and she reaches her hand out. But Ice can't let her forgive him that easily. "Don't touch me," he warns her. He feels his stomach twist and he puts his hand to his mouth as he retches, but nothing comes up. He's empty. "I ain't worth it."

"Ice, no," she says, and she puts her hand out again and her cool touch burns. He jerks away, gets up, shakes his head. The pressure in his head is reaching the point where it threatens to split him wide open. If it hasn't already.

"I can't," he says, breathing hard and fast. Even when he's not looking the blood is still there on her face and always will be. "I'm sorry. God, I'm—I'm so sorry."

And then he bolts out of her room and through the window and down the fire escape and into the night and runs and runs and runs but there is no escape here, or anywhere in the world for this boy named Ice.

.

In the end, he doesn't see any other way out.

"Ma," Ice says as he walks into the kitchen. It's hours later and he's cleaned up some but he's still shivering, still shaking, and all he can do is hope she doesn't notice. His mother is sitting at the table examining a stack of papers, and from what he can tell, she's not impressed. "What—what's goin' on?"

She sighs. "Just more of the same. Bills, mostly."

Ice clears his throat. "Anythin' to worry about?"

His mother shakes her head. "I don't think so," she says. "We'll just have to tighten our belts a wee bit, is all."

Ice swallows hard. He can see the deep lines etched in her face and he doesn't think there's much more weight left to lose there. "You barely eat enough as it is."

She quirks up her mouth into a rueful smile, still scanning the paper. "And you're any better?"

Ice shrugs, remembering the few mouthfuls from the day before as if from a dream. She's not exactly right—yesterday aside, he usually tries not to eat too much at home because he can always nab something out of a sidewalk grocery if he needs to. His mother, though, doesn't see that as an option. "I'm fine, Ma."

"I'll talk to Mrs. O'Quinn, down at my sewin' circle," she says. "She knows everyone. Maybe she could introduce me to a family or two, so's I could be earnin' more."

Ice stares down at her. His mother makes just enough from her sewing to support them in their tiny apartment, but as she gets older he hates to see her working so much for both of them. It's too much for her, all by herself.

"We'll think-a somethin'," he says, resting a hand on her shoulder. She's so thin. So delicate. And not for the first time Ice wonders exactly how much trouble he's caused her over the years. "I just don't want you workin' so hard. Not for me, anyway. I'll get by."

She reaches up, clasps his hand in her own. "Trust, John. That's what we should be doin'."

Trust, thinks Ice, staring down at her tired face. He wishes he still believed in that.

He shakes his head and squeezes her hand. "Wait another day, Ma," he says, his voice soft. He can't look her in the eye, can't face the mother whose son turned out to be just like his father. "One more day, an' I bet everything'll look better."

She half-raises her eyes, the first stirrings of worry appearing on her face. "John—"

He's already out the door.

.

He finds her sitting on a swing in the playground.

"Vee," he says, his mouth dry.

Velma shakes her head at him, eyes suddenly more scared than he's ever seen them. She's gotten the blood off her face but he still sees it. He still sees it. "Ice—" she starts, but he can't let her go on, or he won't be able to.

"Look," he says, "I think—I'm gettin' outta here."

"No," she whispers, staring at him. "No, Ice, don't do this."

He ignores her because he has to, and plunges on. "Vee, I gotta think about things. It's got nothin' to do with you—"

"Is this about what _didn't_ happen?" she asks furiously, getting to her feet. "'Cause I told you, _it doesn't matter_. You didn't mean it, I know you didn't mean it, an' nothin' even _happened_, Ice!"

"But it coulda," he says, and there it is. The worst thing about it, and about him, and, he realizes now, what Reaper saw in him all along. "It still might."

"But you didn't do anythin'!" Velma cries out, taking a few steps forward. "Ya didn't even—"

He backs up, shakes his head. No. "You wanna wait for it, then?" he asks, taking a deep breath and hating himself even more. "Because I bet that's how it started with them, too. Anyway—it ain't just that."

There are tears running down her face now, and each one cuts worse than a Soviet knife ever did. "Then _what is it_?"

"You don't know what it was like," he says. He can barely get it out. "Seein' what kinda person you are. Seein' what you could do. An' Vee—you were scared," he says, breathing hard. "Of me. I saw it."

She glares at him. "The only thing I'm scared of is losing you."

"Look, it ain't you," he says, his voice soft. "It never was, Vee, it's got nothin' to do with you—"

"_No!_" Velma bursts out, her face anguished. "God, Ice—it's like you think if you say it enough times I'll believe it. Well, I got news for you: it's got _everything_ to do with me!"

Ice stares at her, wordless. And he sees how she can't stop trembling, how she's trying to hold him with her even now, and how she looks nothing like the girl from the East Side she used to be. He sees what he's done to her. And how this is the only thing he can do to fix it.

"Not anymore."

The words ring out in the space between them and for the first time, Ice feels the distance stretching between them. Velma's face is stunned, and she is shaking her head in small, barely perceptible motions, breathing hard. But he can't. He can't.

"I'm going," he says miserably.

"Please," she says, her voice quieter and younger than he's ever heard it. "Ice—please."

But he can't do it. He can't stop. He can't.

"I—" he says, then stumbles. "Love you. I love you."

And then he turns and leaves the words behind.

.

He is walking close to the bridge on the highway when an dusty, beat-up truck pulls up next to him. Ice, always wary, glances at the driver, but it's just an old man whose worn face reminds him, in expression, at least, of Doc.

"Hey, kid. Need a ride?"

He has to go. He has to get away. He has to think.

"Sure," he says, swallowing hard. "Thanks."

The door swings open and Ice hauls himself into the seat. The window's cracked and the air conditioner's busted but it's a way out and that's all he cares about.

"Where ya goin'?"

Ice stares straight ahead of him, at everything and nothing. "Anywhere you're goin'," he says. "It don't matter to me."

The driver shrugs and begins to pull away. "Fine by me."

And as they leave the only home he's ever known behind, Ice glances out the window, watches the streets pass by in a blur. There are things he has to think about now. Because it's not just about surviving anymore. There's a difference, he has learned, between that and living.

Ice looks down, runs his finger over the glass face of his watch—Velma's watch—and turns his gaze straight ahead, to the bridge.

He doesn't know where he's going or where he'll end up, but it sure as hell won't be here.


	26. someone i loved

Note: FTA LIIIVES. Obviously it's been about two years since I updated and I suck and I am sorry. I don't actually expect anyone to read this, let alone review—that's not and never has been why I write—but this fic is closer to my heart than anything I've ever done and I promised myself that I would finish it. And edit the previous chapters that so badly need editing. In my defense, though, a lot has happened in the last two years. Like learning how to figure skate! And winning a US Figure Skating Adult National championship in my level/age group! Yay. Also, I learned part of the mambo from the Dance at the Gym the other day and it was awesome and had cactus arms. Yes.

Proper credit: anyone who's sent me a message wondering where the heck this chapter is, and/or anyone reading this right now. Seriously—thank you. And **RhapsodyInProgress** for putting up with my babble. No idea when the next chapter will be up, but it's on my radar, I promise.

—viennacantabile

* * *

fell the angels

twenty-six : someone i loved

.

How long does it take to forget the odor of someone who loved you? How long until you stop loving?

If only someone would give me an hourglass.

—Anna Gavalda, Je L'aimais

.

Nobody ever lies about being lonely.

—_From Here to Eternity_

.

She dreams of nothing, that night, and when she wakes up in the morning she opens her eyes and stares up at the ceiling and feels—nothing.

Velma knows what has happened, remembers the metal bite of the swings imprinted in her palms and the sharp intake of her breath, cut off before reaching her lungs. She remembers the unsteady sway of her legs, standing on concrete but still caught by the motion of the swings. Still falling, still in midair. The facts are easy enough.

But the image of the line of his back moving away from her is lost. Maybe it's stupidity, maybe it's blindness, but she has no memory of it at all. It hasn't caught up with her. It's not real yet, and she doesn't know when it will be because it's too hard to understand, too hard to process something that is so utterly impossible.

_Gone_, she thinks, testing the word in her mind. The concept is so alien to her she almost laughs, before trying out _fine_. Fine is a better word. Fine has no hurt, no pain attached to it. Fine, she decides, is how she will feel.

(But in the end she knows that no matter where she hides, the weight of what has happened will find her. It won't be, it can't be this easy. And when it comes for her, she doesn't know how she will be able to bear it.)

.

"So where the fuck is he?"

It's daylight, now, and no matter what she does the world refuses to leave her alone.

"He didn't say nothin' to ya?"

"He must be plannin' somethin', then; he wouldn't just up an' leave—"

"But without tellin' us? Gee, I don't think—"

"D'ya know what happened?"

"It's just—we thought the Reds mighta gotten him—"

"I wouldn't put it past 'em," says Action with a scowl. He is the loudest, when he finds out the next afternoon. He is the one who demands, over and over, to know where Ice is, the one who almost reaches out to shake the answer out of her before yanking back fists still seeping red through torn-up scraps of old t-shirt. He can't stop moving, can't stop railing against the world, and when Velma tells him, as she has every time he's asked this question, that Ice is just gone and that's all she knows, Action shakes his head.

"Bull," he snarls, rage and fear warring in his eyes. "He'da told you _somethin_'."

"He did," Velma says tonelessly. She has answered every question but it isn't enough for them. Block it out, she thinks, shut it out, don't let it in, and if she chooses to forget then maybe she will. "He told me he was leavin'."

There is a pause.

"Action," ventures Baby John, "maybe she really don't—"

"Goddammit, Baby John!" thunders Action, head whipping around to glare at him. "Who the hell d'ya think's in charge around here, anyway?"

They're not all here—Action has sent Snowboy, Gee-Tar, and Anybodys out to see what they can find—but none of the remaining Jets says anything. Not even Big Deal, who's made it clear that going along as lieutenant is very far from volunteering for the captain's job. The thing is, Velma thinks, there hasn't been any official vote in the day since Ice's disappearance. Not even a discussion, really, because there's barely been time to take it all in. And now here it is.

Baby John shuffles his feet, but finally shrugs, avoiding Action's gaze.

"Exactly," Action says, glowering at Baby John. "So _I'm_ askin' the questions around here."

It makes sense, Velma thinks from outside herself as the new leader turns back to her with the same question as before. Action takes over because the rest of the Jets, when they speak, are scared, shocked, angry, and his is the only voice they can trust not to break. This is the third captain they've lost in less than a year, and none of them is certain of anything anymore now that one more person in their lives has vanished. None of them wants to be next in line. Action takes over, she thinks, because no one else will.

"I didn't think he meant it," Big Deal says later, after they've all gone, with something like guilt flickering underneath the bruises ringing his left eye. He clears his throat, shifts his weight, and when Velma says nothing, hurries away. She doesn't know what he's talking about but it's not hard to guess. The weight is too much to handle, she supposes, which is the reason they're all running from it now. Too much for all of them when there are still wars left to fight.

Wars. That is too close to the knowledge she doesn't want, Velma thinks, and redirects her attention to the boys who are here now. None of them is unscathed. The Jets have driven off the Reds for the time being, Velma learns, but the funny thing about this victory is that with all the blood and fear it looks an awful lot like defeat. They're still spitting, cracking underneath their wounds but this time there is no one to calm them, keep them in check, and what the Jets become without their captain, Velma sees, is uglier.

Three days after the rumble, they grab the young, blond Red and interrogate him behind the school for two hours. He knows even less than Velma does, but it doesn't matter. They don't let him go until his wide-eyed face is speckled with purple and he's choking on blood. Velma, catching a glimpse of this from behind a fence, has to go, has to turn around and leave the sight of it behind. This, she thinks, for the second time as she hurries away. This is what they do. What it really means to be a Jet now. She supposes at this point she shouldn't be surprised, but she is.

It's just that he's so young, Velma thinks in spite of herself, in spite of all the Red has done, her breath catching. So much like her little brothers.

She forces the thought back, consciously separates the two parts of her life. Her brothers—her family—have nothing to do with this. Never, never.

But it's not only the Reds. The gang interrogates Stamper, Ammo, Rattle, Wheezy, even Mouse, one of the last Emeralds hanging around. Every kid who ever had anything to do with the Jets, and half the ones who didn't. The only gang they leave in peace is the Sharks, and even then just because Baby John reminds them all of the cease-fire.

"They wouldn't do nothin' to Ice," he says from behind Doc's counter after a couple days of this, "just like we wouldn't do nothin' to Pepe."

Action, rubbing his still-raw fists, looks like he isn't so sure about that, but he's too busy trying to ignore Anybodys to scoff. The tomboy is dancing around him, trying to get him to listen.

"Look, don'tcha think snatchin' kids from every gang around's askin' for trouble?" she says, eyes bright. "An' askin' 'em where they dumped our captain? That's like sayin' come pay us a visit 'cause our biggest gun is gone. Don't sound too smart to me."

Velma's picked up enough from the Jets to have to think she's got a point. Broadcasting the fact that their leader's skipped town probably isn't the best idea, but Action never was one for thinking ahead and taking over doesn't seem to have changed that.

The new captain scowls. "We gotta find him before we take out the Reds for good, an' Velma ain't coughin' up."

"'Cause I don't know," Velma says for the thousandth time from her new perch by the window, but no one listens. She doesn't know why she's here, either. The darkness, the heat in here, is stifling and when she's with the Jets, it's harder to pretend.

"Well, if he don't want us, then whadda we need with him?"

There's a harsh undercurrent of bitterness in Anybodys's tone as she slouches in the doorway to the stairs against the pinball machine. She's scratching at the bandage on her arm, resentful gaze cast up at Velma. Of all the injuries picked up in the rumble that night, Anybodys's remains the most visible reminder of how much things have changed in less than a week. The cuts have scabbed over, the bruises have faded to yellow, but the wound made by Reaper's knife lingers.

"C'mon, go ahead," the tomboy says, her voice low and directed straight at her. "Make excuses for him runnin' off and just leavin' us like that."

Velma stares at her. Of all of them, Anybodys seems to have grasped the situation the quickest, has figured out that this is more than just some police-baiting scheme like the ones Riff was always cooking up. That Ice is gone, and maybe for good.

For good. The idea pierces her, and just as quickly she shoves it away.

"I have to go," she says, standing up and pushing her stool in with unsteady hands. Nobody looks at her except Anybodys, whose expression is unchanged.

You don't get off that easy, she seems to say. Not this time.

The worst part, the part that she keeps pushing away is, Velma thinks, retreating to the door, she's right.

.

This time when Schrank calls her in, he sits and stares at her with shrewd dark eyes before clearing his throat.

"Thought you said you'd be leaving him soon."

Velma bites the inside of her lip, gently. If it hurts, it's real, she thinks. Isn't that the rule, anyway? "Guess I didn't have to."

The lieutenant sighs. "Look," he says. "Let's be straight with each other, all right? I know you kids think I'm here to make your lives miserable, but I'm surprised you still _got_ lives, the way you've been taking each other out. So now—"

"I don't know anything," she says, the words hollow in the air. For once she's telling him the truth, that Ice stopped talking to her about gang business long before he left. That he didn't have to, for her to know how scared he was.

No. No, she thinks, her pulse hammering in her chest, this isn't the time or the place for thinking about that. She has a role to play here, and not a bit of it involves having a heart.

Schrank ignores her and goes on, rolling his cigar between his fingers. "—now you tell me if I got it right. The Jets tangle with the Commies for a couple weeks. They get tired of them. Plan a rumble. Your boy learns a thing or two from the last one, and he brings a knife and slices their captain up. He thinks about it, wises up about his chances, hides out as far away from the docks as he can get." Schrank leans across the table. "So the Jets decide, why not? They don't need him. And they run roughshod over this beat worse than they ever did before. You don't know anything, sure, but do you got any idea how many cops I got coming to me about gang kids being snatched and turning up beaten into a bloody pulp?" He pauses, gaze sharp. "All except the Jets and the Sharks. Whaddaya think about that."

Velma gazes straight into his dark eyes. She doesn't know whether he means it when he says he wants to help, and she's even less sure of her feelings about the fact that for once it _is_ the Jets he's talking about, but she does know exactly what to say, though it costs her some effort. "I don't _think_ anything about it."

"Don't you?" Schrank asks. "Seems to me you'd have plenty to think, what with being his girl and all." He chuckles, but his eyes stay narrowed. "Oh, but that's over now, ain't it. Trouble in paradise, eh?"

Something cracks in her, then, and now it isn't that she doesn't think, it's that she doesn't care. The Jets got themselves into this without her; they can get out of it without her because for all they say about Jets being family, they couldn't help their own when he needed them and part of Velma can't forgive them for that. "All of you," she says, her voice even. "You've got so many ideas. So many stories about what you think happened. About them. Because you know them so well," she says. She thinks she's saying too much, but for once Velma's sick of pretending. "Well, you don't. Least of all Ice."

And it hurts, then, because whatever the Jets did or didn't do she is worse than them in that even though she did know him, she couldn't help him and she can't forgive herself for that, either. So stupid, Velma thinks, her stomach clenching, she's so stupid.

Schrank shakes his head. "I don't gotta know them. I figured out a long time ago they're all the same. And if you think different, little miss, you're setting yourself up for a world of hurt. Do yourself a favor," he says, putting his cigar down. "You're still a nice girl. He's gone; whaddaya need with them? Get out now, while ya can."

Velma stares at him, at the hard set of his jaw, at the way even now he is looking for any information she has. She knows the script. Her part. And still Velma is just too tired to play it.

"If that's supposed to be a warning, Lieutenant," she says, "you're too late."

.

"The thing is," says Minnie, earnest as ever, "he loved you. He really did."

It's a week since he's been gone and Minnie, being Minnie, has shown up bearing sugar cookies and chocolate and baby Riff. This isn't entirely unexpected, Velma thinks. For the second time in a year, the Jets' girls have been left leaderless. Only this time, the new captain doesn't have a steady girlfriend to step up and take the reins. Pauline is the closest, maybe, but both she and Action would have a fit at the idea of being each other's one and only and the oldest of their group has never been one for responsibility, anyway. Even if she were, things have changed. Graz and the twins are usually at home with the babies, too busy to come and sit at Doc's like they used to. Minnie, she thinks, in the end, it's Minnie who keeps them together, organizes ice cream trips and visits to Bloomingdales and babysitting shifts and pencils herself in as a substitute when Pauline, as she always does, disappears just as it's her turn to show. Minnie cooks, bakes, flutters around each of them, makes sure they're all okay. Or at least getting by. Like Velma.

"You know that, don't you?" Minnie asks, her forehead creased. Velma can see how hard she's trying to fix things, make her friends feel better. It's what Minnie does, who she is. And she's so earnest, so sincere that Velma doesn't have the heart to tell Minnie that the last thing she wants to do is talk about Ice and those unfathomable reasons why he left. Even with the closest thing she's ever had to a little sister.

"I do," Velma says instead, against the voice inside her that points to the facts and her own loneliness and says even if she's right, even if he did love her, it didn't make a difference in the end. She takes a cookie, bites it, plays pretend once more. "These are good, Minnie."

"Thank you," her friend beams, and doesn't skip a beat. "You know, I'm sure he only left because he's planning something really wonderful. Or, maybe he's thought of a way to end all these rumbles and he had to go so he could do it. I know there's a good reason, Velma. I'm sure of it."

Velma, picking up Riff, settles him in her arms and breathes in the warm milky scent of baby. He's sweet, she thinks, watching him yawn, really sweet. And so is Minnie, for trying to cheer her up, but even she can't change the reality that the only one who saw what really happened is Velma and so she knows none of this is true.

"Yeah," she says, forcing a smile on her face. "Anyway, it doesn't matter, Minnie. I'm fine."

"I know you are," the youngest Jet girl says. "And it'll be okay, Velma. I promise."

Minnie's so innocent. So hopeful. She used to be like that, Velma thinks. And Graz, and Anita, and—Maria.

She wonders, then, what's become of the two Puerto Rican girls. She's heard things, here and there, mostly from the Gambini twins, whose mother has somehow ended up with the Shark girl Rosalia as a babysitter for Izzy. About the Sharks, and about nurseries of their own.

Minnie, she thinks, her heart twisting as she looks at her friend and wonders if they're all just doomed to repeat the same vicious cycle, over and over again. Of all of them Velma can't bear the thought of it being her. Please, God, not Minnie.

.

The first school day of the second week, Velma leaves her building to find a boy leaning against a streetlight, waiting for her. For a moment she's deceived by the height, and the build, but in another, she shakes her head, frustrated by her own wishful thinking.

"What're you doin' here, Mouthpiece?"

"Ain't been to school since I dropped out," he says with an easy smile. "Thought maybe I'd walk with ya today."

Velma opens her mouth to tell him no, she's fine, that he can go home, but he's already hefted her bag and taken a few steps down the sidewalk, as if this is the right and natural thing to do. She supposes, in his world, it is.

"C'mon," the tall Jet says with another grin. "You're gonna be late."

Velma stares at him for a moment. Normally she wouldn't think twice about turning him down, waving him off, but she doesn't think he means it that way. As silly as Mouthpiece can be, she isn't fooled about this. He hasn't crawled out of bed three hours early and walked all the way over to her apartment just on a whim, or even to try and take Ice's place. He's doing it for her, because he doesn't want her to be alone.

"Okay," she says. "But you don't have to go the whole way."

He smiles. "I will, anyway."

Up close, he looks nothing like Ice but his wide familiar grin is comforting enough. "Why?"

His expression doesn't change. "To make sure you're okay."

Velma bites her lip, hard. "Tall order," she says, when she can keep her voice even.

Mouthpiece smiles. "Nothing's impossible," he says, with that absolute certainty he still hasn't lost, even after all this time. It's one of the few things that hasn't changed. "'Specially not for a Jet."

"Yeah," she says as they begin the long walk to school, her voice soft. "You'd think so."

.

Velma has never been afraid of the dark but now, in the nighttime, she leaves the smallest of her lamps on. And still she wakes up in the night gasping, clutching her chest because she can't breathe and she doesn't know why. She doesn't cry. It would be easier, somehow, she thinks, if she did, but she hasn't, and if she's honest she thinks it's a little strange. She _should_ cry, Velma thinks, for all that Ice was and is to her.

Maybe she _is_ cold, she supposes, like Schrank and Krupke and all of them—even the Jets and their girls, probably—think. Maybe that's why she and Ice lasted so long.

She hasn't told anyone what happened when he left. Not the Jets, not her mother, not even Graziella. She's only said that he's gone, that he had to leave. Which is all that matters to them. Because what would be the point? she wonders. Whether or not she was enough, whether or not he stopped himself from hitting her, whether or not it was the rumble or her that was the last thing that sent him over the edge, the end result is always the same and the one thing she can't change.

She thinks she understands Graziella, and those Shark girls, a little better now. The difference is that Riff, Bernardo, Tony—none of them chose to leave. None of them looked at what they had and said it wasn't enough, that it couldn't ever be enough, and left. They'd be here right now, she thinks, if they only could. What makes Ice different?

She'd thought she'd known, Velma supposes, once upon a time.

.

Velma doesn't think she would have noticed the quiet footsteps behind her, if not for the fact that in spite of everything, she still keeps hoping. She stops. "What're ya doin'?"

From the shadows emerges a figure: Anybodys, looking wary and almost defensive. "Nothin'."

"You don't live anywhere near here," Velma says, puzzled. They're almost to her building and she's never seen the tomboy in this neighborhood before. "You followin' me, or somethin'?" She swallows hard. "I told you I don't know where he is."

Anybodys scuffs the ground with her shoe. What Velma can see of the tomboy's face is a mixture of resentful and exasperated. "It ain't that."

Velma frowns. "Then what?"

Anybodys, still not looking at her, shrugs. "He asked me to. An' maybe he ain't my captain an' I don't follow his orders anymore, but I said I would. So I am."

Velma doesn't understand. "Why would he—"

"The Reds," mutters Anybodys.

Now she gets it, Velma thinks, remembering his fear. Now she understands. But it still doesn't explain everything.

"But you hate us," she says, too tired to talk around it. Too tired to care. "The girls. All of us 'cept Minnie. You always have."

Anybodys hesitates, a frown knotting her face. "I don't—"

"An' me, ever since I came here," Velma says. "I don't know why you'd care now."

"It's just—you don't know what you _did_ to him," bursts out Anybodys, her small face ferocious. "Before you showed up Ice was never some stupid sap, not like the resta them. Not for anyone. He never went crazy over a skirt before, an' he never just sat there an' smiled like he couldn't see nothin' else in the world an' he—" She stops, shakes her head. "He was a _Jet_ before he met ya. He wasn't the same, after."

Velma stares at her. "You think I—"

"You weren't one of us," she says, eyes narrowed. "He was."

Velma doesn't quite understand. Or she does, but it doesn't matter. "That's why you hate me?"

Anybodys's face twists. "I don't—I wish I—" And then she stops, a certain longing on her face. "It's so easy for you."

Velma almost smiles. "Is it." And then she looks, really looks, at the way the redhead's face is screwed up, like she could almost cry, and remembers how the only time Anybodys ever seemed like a girl was when she looked at Ice. And then Velma catches sight of the scar on her arm, still bright and vivid after weeks.

So, she thinks, the cynical tomboy does believe in love.

Velma lifts her gaze to Anybodys's blue eyes, the thought forming as she kicks herself for not having seen it sooner. "You—"

"Shut up," Anybodys snaps, shaking her head as she tugs her arm behind her. "You think you know me but I don't care, okay? I _don't_," she says, sounding almost desperate. "You shouldn't care, neither," she adds. "He's just a _boy_."

But the problem with this is that Ice isn't just any boy. He's hers. Or, at least, was. He doesn't want you, Velma tells herself, the memory of those two words bursting out into the open. _Not anymore_. Salt into the wound. And, as Anybodys says so well, if he doesn't want you, what do you need with him?

"I just don't get it," says Anybodys, her voice strange, quieter now. "He had it all. The Jets, his ma, you. He was captain. He'd just won a rumble, for Chrissake. Why would he leave?"

Velma stares. So that, she thinks, is what it looked like from the outside. Then she shakes her head. It's not like being on the inside was any clearer. "I don't know."

"What else is there?" asks Anybodys, face troubled. "What could be better than this?"

A lot of things, Velma thinks. Little, insignificant moments she can't keep away now, just because they were happy then. Sitting without speaking. The window, opening. The feel of his hand on her hair. Right now she'd give anything for that.

"Anybodys," she says, reaching for something, anything. "How—what's going on? With the Jets?"

Anybodys stares at her. "We're fine."

Velma furrows her brow. "But the Reds—"

"Ain't done nothin' yet," the tomboy says, a touch of her old fierceness back. "They don't dare, not with Reaper's mug still healin' up. That don't mean we ain't keepin' tabs on 'em," she adds, hands on her hips, "but they're in no shape to be makin' trouble yet."

Velma nods. It's strange, she thinks, but she's even more out of the loop than before, when Ice wasn't telling her anything, because even then she'd overhear details at Doc's, or from the girls. Now, though, avoiding both, she's more cut off than she ever was.

"Anyway, it ain't that I care, but ya oughta be careful," Anybodys says, back to her gruff, no-nonsense demeanor. "Don't walk around by yourself. Only so much I can do."

Velma nods. "Yeah," she says. "I'm almost home now, though."

"Guess I'll go, then," Anybodys says, backing away. She's turned and poised to run when Velma speaks, against her better judgment.

"Anybodys?"

The tomboy turns, the old wariness back in her face. "Yeah?"

Velma didn't see it happen—doesn't even want to think about it—but the livid scar on the girl's arm is proof enough of what she owes to Anybodys. "Thank you."

The tomboy's face spasms, and it's a few seconds before she scowls. "I didn't do it for you."

"I know," Velma says, but all the same, it's a debt she won't ever be able to repay. "Thanks anyway."

A fleeting look of naked pain crosses Anybodys face. "I swore I wasn't gonna let him—not after Riff an' Tony—" She stops. "God_dammit_—"

And then she's gone.

.

It takes longer than she expects for her mother to ask.

"I haven't seen your young man in awhile," Mrs. Andersen says, her voice cautious. "Is something the matter?"

Velma, sitting at her vanity, brush in hand, is glad her mother can't see her face from the door. She has to take a moment to breathe deep, swallow hard, before she can say anything. It's been three weeks and endless questions and still she hasn't figured out what to tell her family.

"No," she says, conscious of the inadequacy of her response, "everything's fine, we just—we're taking a break." It's not the whole truth, not even half the truth, but she doesn't know what else to say. "It happened a couple weeks ago."

She hears a rustle as her mother moves over, puts her hand on her daughter's shoulder. "Velma—"

It's the first time her mother has used her daughter's American name, and Velma has to hide her surprise. "I'm fine," she says, shaking her head. "Don't worry."

Mrs. Andersen meets her Velma's gaze in the mirror. She doesn't say anything, but Mrs. Andersen has the same blue eyes as her daughter and they're not hard to read. Of course, they say. Of course she worries.

Velma breathes deep, tries to smile. But all she can think of and all she can remember are the words running through her head, still unbelievable as they were that day on the swing.

_He's leaving he's left he's gone—_

It's funny, Velma thinks, dropping her gaze. She used to be a much better liar.

.

"Well," Graziella says. "I still can't believe it. That rat bastard."

They're sitting in the Roberts apartment, putting Riff to bed and Graziella, it seems, is just getting warmed up.

"Y'know," she goes on between bites of popcorn, "I woulda expected it from the other guys, sure, but Ice? Guess he had me fooled."

Velma swallows hard. Of all the girls, Graziella is the one who has talked about Ice the most, has gone over and over how horrible she thinks the whole thing is and how she's always said you can't trust men. Never, never.

The sad thing is she knows Graziella's just trying to make her feel better. Velma understands because it's what she would do herself. But part of her still wants to defend Ice, say _you don't know what happened or what he went through_ because she still loves him and Velma knows, better than anyone else, how hard it really was for him. Well-intentioned as Graziella is, she doesn't, can't know what Velma does.

"Graz, stop," she finally says during the tenth tirade on how Graziella never trusted him. "This isn't—it ain't helpin'."

"Then say it all yourself," Graziella bursts out. "C'mon, Vel, I know you must hate him, an' you'd be right, so c'mon. Go ahead."

Velma shakes her head, bites her lip. No matter how hard she tries, Graziella doesn't understand. "I can't, Graz."

"But don'tcha wanna talk about it?" Graziella says, leaning forward. "Look, I know how it feels, Vel, an' it'll help if ya talk."

"Graz," she says. Her ears are ringing. "If I talk about it, it's real."

"It _is_ real," Graziella says, her voice insistent. "C'mon, Vel, I know it hurts, but ya gotta face it."

"I don't—I don't want to think about it," Velma says. Is this how he felt? she wonders miserably, every time she pushed him further, every time she asked more from him than he could give? That no matter how far he shrank in on himself, there was still someone waiting to tear him open with love?

I'm sorry, she thinks, far too late. I didn't know.

"Vel," Graziella says, her voice harsh. "You have to forget him. He's just another one-a those boys who leave an' don't come back. That's how it is."

"No," Velma says before she can stop herself, "_no_, you're wrong. You are. Ice, he's not—"

Graziella, brown eyes bright, shakes her head. "You still think you can love him an' it'll all be fine. I thought that too, once."

Velma stares at her. Now that her friend has settled down into a life, of sorts, with Tiger and the baby, Velma sometimes forgets how bad the last year really was. "Graz—"

"You're better off," the redhead says. "Not puttin' your whole life on someone like that. Someone who'll hurt you. You are."

The baby fusses a little, and Graziella reaches down and strokes his head before turning back to look at Velma, her gaze serious.

"See, us, we don't get the fairytale, Vel," she says, her voice soft. "Not the prince or the castle or nothin'. That ain't how it works."

"No?" Velma says, then chokes out a laugh through the crushing weight of sadness settling over her. "No such thing as a happy ending, huh?"

Graziella turns back to the crib, rests her hand on the baby's cheek.

"No," she says. "Not here. Not for us. Not even for you."

.

Over the last few weeks, Velma's come to accept the fact that Mouthpiece will be waiting for her before and after school—Clarice calls him her guard dog—but it comes as a surprise when he takes a detour one afternoon.

"C'mon," he says, taking her hand and towing her through the streets. "I wanna take you someplace."

Velma stares at his hand and resists the urge to pull hers back. "Where're we goin'?"

"Someplace," is all he says before he is humming happily, lost in his own world, as always.

Velma just shrugs and doesn't question it until she sees the chain link fence and hears the squeak of the seesaw. And then she stares through the fence and at the swings and feels her stomach turn. "No—Mouthpiece, I don't want to be here."

Mouthpiece is already sitting on a swing, long legs skidding on the ground as he tries to build up the speed to get into the air. "You oughta try this, Velma!"

"No," she says, shaking her head, feeling cold all over, "no, please, let's go."

The boy glances up at her, confused, then shrugs. "Okay."

They get all the way back to her building before Velma tries an explanation.

"It's just—we used to go there," she says miserably, scuffing the bottom of her heel on the pavement. "An' I can't—"

Mouthpiece plops down on the front steps. "Okay."

It's all he says. And Velma stares at him. "You're not askin' why?"

Mouthpiece shrugs, digging in his pocket. "Don't need to know."

"Never stops anyone else," she says, unable to take her eyes off him.

"I ain't nobody else, though," the Jet says, coming up with a grimy piece of candy. "I'm Mouthpiece. Want it?"

"No thanks," Velma says, amused in spite of herself. "You're funny, you know that?"

Mouthpiece pops the unwrapped candy into his mouth. "I hear that, sometimes," he offers between bites. "I hear I'm a lotta things."

"Yeah?" says Velma, the corner of her mouth quirking up. "Like what."

"Dumb, mostly," the Jet says, counting on his fingers. "An' more trouble'n I'm worth, an' a real piece-a mouth—"

"_Oh_," she says, finally getting it, "that's where you got your name, huh?"

"Yup," he says. "But my real name's Marvin."

She blinks. "Marvin?"

"Yeah," he beams. "Marvin Harvard Winkle. 'Cause my ma wanted me to go to some big school in Yonkers or somethin'. Don't think that's gonna happen, though."

Velma stifles a laugh. Just about the only person she knows who's smart enough to go to Harvard is Midge, if they took girls, and she can only imagine her reaction to Mouthpiece locating it in Yonkers.

"Well," she says, "I don't know about Harvard, but I think you're a good guy, Mouthpiece."

"Gee, thanks, Velma," says Mouthpiece happily. "I think you're the nicest girl I ever knew."

Velma almost smiles. "That's sweet, but it's stretchin' the truth a little, Mouthpiece."

"No," he says, and she is surprised to hear a note of seriousness in his voice. "If there's one thing I can promise ya, Velma, it's that I'll always tell ya the truth."

Velma glances away. She doesn't deserve this, she thinks. She doesn't deserve this sweet, earnest child-man looking at her like she's the be-all and end-all of his universe. She's not worth it.

"Thanks," she says. "Though I can't promise you the same."

"It's okay," Mouthpiece says, and when Velma looks up she is surprised to see him grinning as happily as ever. "You don't have to."

After he leaves, Velma locks herself in her room, closes the curtains, turns one lamp on so that she can see, dimly, the photo in her hand. She's there, smiling up at the boy next to her with complete and utter adoration, but it's Ice's face Velma is looking at now. She stares, for long minutes, and tries to see in those pale inscrutable eyes what she'd felt outside.

Unconditional love. It's not, she thinks, as simple on the other side of things. It's not whether you deserve it or not, it's not always uncomplicated. It's not always the gift they make it out to be.

"I don't love you," she whispers. "And I'm not yours."

The photo stares back, a mute challenge. Velma swallows hard, then puts the photo inside her dresser drawer and locks it.

.

"Look at me."

Velma, hearing the words, is almost too afraid to turn around.

When she does, the face she sees in the moonlight looks like a mask, a jagged crack down the side, wet with blood. She doesn't dare breathe, but this time, when she sees what Ice has done, Velma doesn't turn away.

"I'm not afraid of you."

"You don't have to be," the Soviet says. "It doesn't take that to make someone bleed."

Velma bites her lip, lifts her chin. "Go ahead, then."

"I'm not going to touch you," he says, his dark eyes unreadable. "But let me tell you something he could not accept. We are not different," the Soviet says. "The two of us."

Velma shakes her head. "I don't know what you're talkin' about."

"He did. And he was afraid," the Red says. "Weren't you?"

Velma flinches. "What does that matter?"

"You think you can change people like us," he says, the glaring red slash down his face shining in the light. "You can't."

And it's Ice's face she sees now, jaw clenched, eyes hopeless. Ice's voice she hears, disappearing into blackness.

_"You don't know what it was like. Seein' what kinda person you are. Seein' what you could do."_

"Maybe I don't," she says, caught by the saddest voice in the world. "But I know _you_."

Velma wakes up to cool air blowing through the open window, gasps for breath, tries to unsee that macabre face in the darkness. But she keeps hearing his words, caught up in her own fears.

"_We are not different. The two of us."_

But they are, she thinks, haunted by the image of a boy chased by demons. Reaper wanted it. Ice never did.

Velma gets off the bed, slips through the window, and sits, feet dangling over the street, on her fire escape. She has had a long time—too long—to think, and she still isn't any closer to understanding. But she knows this.

You're wrong, she tells the phantom Reaper, just as she has told Graziella and Schrank and her parents and everyone else who never believed in him. Even Ice himself. You're wrong.

This time, though, the only one there to hear is herself.


	27. the black mirror

Note: HI UPDATE YAY! Can't deny that I'm pretty excited that this is up so (relatively) soon. Am quite busy working on two costumes for DragonCon and two programs for a competition the same weekend but it turns out that working on a chapter is just the thing to clear Power Ranger helmet paint fumes away from the brain (yes, I am a dork and my freak flag is flying pretty high at the moment). However, finishing this chapter also led to the final decision that yes, my Never-Ending Fic of Doom (TM) will be expanding once more. You probably would've made this decision too, if you'd hit 10,000 words on this chapter and characters were running roughshod all over your outline and you still had miles to go before you slept. -_- Anyway, if all goes as newly planned, we're looking at 32 chapters. 33 at most. Sigh. -_-

Undying gratitude goes to: **Mumsy**, **RhapsodyInProgress**, and **Bardess of Avon** for their lovely reviews last chapter. As much as it's true that I don't write for reviews, it's also true that reviews (and especially thoughtful ones) are like cookies: you can never, ever have enough.

—viennacantabile

* * *

fell the angels

twenty-seven : the black mirror

.

'Où sont les hommes?' reprit enfin le petit prince. 'On est un peu seul dans le désert.'  
'On est seul aussi chez les hommes', dit le serpent.

"Where are the people?" resumed the little prince at last. "It's a little lonely in the desert..."  
"It is lonely when you're among people, too," said the snake.

—Antoine de Saint-Exupéry, Le Petit Prince

.

"Velma?"

She turns to face an instant of brightness, and a click.

"Ted?" she asks, putting her hand on the window and blinking away the spots in her vision to focus on the man in front of her. "Did you—"

Her brother-in-law, standing in the middle of all the housewarming party debris, is already fumbling with his camera. "Hang on a sec."

Katrina, perched on the kitchen counter sipping a leftover glass of wine, rolls her eyes. "Ignore him," she says, waving a hand at her husband. "Ever since he got that thing he hasn't stopped taking pictures. The new apartment, the street outside, the neighbors. The party, just now. You should see how many he's got of me." Katrina smirks. "I know we just got to the Village and all, but you'd think a photographer would be used to cameras by now."

"This one's different, though," says Ted as he wrestles with the camera. "Instant film."

"After a couple minutes," Katrina says with a giggle. "I don't know if I'd really call that instant, honey. You still have to sit around and twiddle your thumbs before it shows up."

"But that's the best part," Ted says, flashing his wife a grin as he walks over to Velma, hand outstretched. "Don't touch the middle. Just wait."

Velma looks at the white square between his fingertips, focuses her attention on its dark center. "What'd you say it was?"

"Instant film." He hands the Polaroid over to her. "It's a new idea I've been experimenting with. A whole series of catching people the way they really are. No posing, no developing, no touch-ups. No pretending. Just reality."

"You should see the one he took of Astrid," Katrina says, smirking. "Our dear older sister looks like she's about ready to murder him. 'Course, it's the first photo where it's hard to tell if she's just getting fat or if she really is having a baby, so I guess I can't blame her too much. But it was a real hoot watching Ted tell her that's her true self preserved for posterity and won't it be fun to show to the kid when he arrives." She shrugs. "Still, it's happier than I've ever seen her so I'd say she got lucky."

Velma, only half-listening, stares at the photograph in her hand, watches the image emerge from the dark shadowy blankness. The face in the picture—pale, unsmiling, turning, a little blurred—looks so foreign to her, nothing like what she sees in the family albums or even in the mirror every day. Almost a ghost. "This is me."

"Yeah," says Ted, the corners of his eyes crinkling as he smiles. "That's you, right there."

One month, she thinks. After one month, this is what she looks like.

"Interesting," she says, handing it back, but Ted doesn't take it.

"Keep it," he says. "Carry it around. It'll grow on ya."

Velma glances at Katrina, who just shrugs and rolls her eyes at her husband. "Who knows? He could be right. Stranger things've happened."

Velma looks back down at the photo. She still doesn't recognize herself. Would anyone else? she wonders. Would—

She bites her lip. This is the key, she has learned: to not think about it, not once, not at all. If she does that, then maybe she can keep it away.

"Little sister," says Katrina, watching her keenly. "You okay?"

Velma nods. "Fine," she says, and stretches her mouth into a smile. If only, she thinks, she could be that lucky.

.

How, Velma wonders, how did she get to this place where the absence of one person could hurt so much?

By now it's not hard to believe he's gone. By now, she feels it in every fiber of her being. Because it's not just that he's gone, it's that the person she was when he was here is gone, too. Velma doesn't know what her identity and what her place is now, let alone what her future will be. They weren't together even two years, she thinks, but Velma's realizing now how much a part of her he was and still is. Even at the end, when he was all but gone already, he was only a few streets away, somewhere she could find him. She could see him, hear him, touch him. And now she wakes up in the middle of the night still curled up on one side like there's someone else to her right, but the bed is empty and there's no one there and she is half of the person she used to be.

It wasn't working, she remembers. Velma knows that more than anyone. But still it was better than—this.

She pinches herself, hard, when no one's looking, bites her lip until she tastes blood, digs her nails into her palms making sure, every day, that she isn't just dreaming, that he hadn't looked her in the eye and said goodbye. That he hadn't chosen to leave. Wake up, she thinks to herself, over and over. Wake up.

But when she does, it doesn't make a difference.

.

Now that school is winding down and most of the seniors have stopped pretending to care, Velma spends most of her time looking around, reflecting on how much has changed in the past year, and wondering where she will be this time next year. God knows she never would've guessed half the things she's seen this year. Though with some, like Baby John and Minnie, it's about time.

They're an official couple now, and watching them giggle and hold hands is a lot like remembering what it was like when she first met her own Jet. Even if they're a very different type of couple, the feeling is the same. And no matter how much Anybodys gags and A-Rab teases him, Velma has the feeling all of the Jets are at least a little amused to see their youngest and the Jets' little sister mooning around all over the place as he puffs himself up protectively and she fusses over the slightest cut. They're that innocent, that cute, that even Action only bothers to chew him out once or twice a day for ruining the Jets' rep.

She's less certain of how Peter feels about all this. Her little brother had gone out on a movie date with Minnie in April that had gotten crashed by A-Rab, Anybodys, and an apparently reluctant Baby John, and though Peter said Minnie hadn't even realized they were on a real date, the whole fiasco had prompted Baby John to finally ask Minnie to officially be his girl.

Velma feels a bit guilty about this. Minnie is her friend, and Velma knows that she's always been just as gone over Baby John as he is for her, but Peter is her brother, and a good guy, and any girl would be lucky to have him, as Minnie herself says when she comes to tell Velma the news.

"You okay?" Velma asks Peter a few days later as he's munching on an apple after school.

He chews, and shrugs. "They seem happy." He's never been one to hold a grudge, Velma remembers, and clearly isn't about to start doing so now. Velma is glad about that, but still she worries a bit.

"You'll find someone else, y'know," she says, trying to cheer him up. "Ain't that Clarissa Clausen still crazy about you?"

Peter looks down at her then, without even a blush, and she realizes then that though he's still working on filling out his body, his is no longer a little boy's face. "You'll find someone else, too, Velma."

Velma bites her lip. By now, of course, her little brothers have found out what has really happened with Ice, though she doesn't know if they've told their parents. They haven't talked about it much, but have taken to finding little ways to show her they care. It's sweet, she thinks, and more than ever she knows she is lucky in spite of everything.

Her little brother's gaze is sincere, now, and he clearly means what he's said in the best way possible. It's what she should want: someone else, because God knows she'd never be able to depend on someone who could just run off at the drop of a hat even if he did come back. And yet.

"Yeah," she says when she can speak. "I know."

Peter smiles a little. "Anyway, I'm fine. 'S Chris you should be thinkin' about."

Velma blinks. "Chris?"

Peter rolls his eyes. "He's so nuts about Clarice he don't even notice Liesl waitin' on him. I know this," he adds with a sigh, "'cause Rudi won't shut up about how annoyin' she is."

Velma has to laugh. Her youngest brother Chris, nursing a hopeless crush on her friend Clarice, whose boyfriend Big Deal's younger sister Liesl has a crush of her own on her best friend: Chris. With Big Deal and Liesl's brother Rudi telling Peter all about it. It's almost like a soap opera, and nearly as entertaining to watch.

"Poor kid."

Peter shrugs. "What can ya do, y'know?" He tosses the core of his apple into the trash can. "Ya find someone, it either works out or it doesn't. Don't make sense to fuss about it." He glances at her, stricken. "'Course I don't mean _you_."

Velma, aware that despite her efforts she's not exactly setting the best example in this regard, half-smiles. "I know."

He watches her carefully. "He ever comes back, I could beat him up for ya."

Velma can't help laughing. "He'd cream ya an' you know it."

Peter sighs. "Yeah, I know." He reaches a tentative arm out and wraps it around her shoulders. "I just wanted ya to know I _would_."

Velma smiles—a real one this time—and returns the hug. "Thanks, little brother," she says. "I do."

.

When the door opens, Velma gives the brightest smile she can manage.

"Hello, Mrs. Kelly."

Ice's mother stares, then breaks into a soft smile of her own. "Why, Velma, this is a surprise. What're ye doin' here?"

"I brought you a cake," Velma says, shifting her weight from one foot from the other. Now that Mrs. Kelly is asking, it seems like such a silly pretext when in fact she's not really sure why she hasn't gone to see Mrs. Kelly before now. Velma thinks, maybe, she hasn't had the courage.

That's a lie, though. Velma knows exactly why she hasn't gone to see her, and it has something to do with self-preservation and the fact that there is no part of her anymore that doesn't hurt.

"Thank ye," Mrs. Kelly says, her voice warm. "Why don't ye come in and sit for a spell, then?"

Velma nods, and follows the woman in. Mrs. Kelly, she notes with surprise, is looking well. A bit thinner, a few more lines around the eyes, but not how she'd imagined Mrs. Kelly would be a little over a month or so after losing her son, from the little Ice has told her about his mother. Not crushed, not beaten down, not helpless with grief. Not broken.

After a bite of the cake and a few sips of tea, Velma sets her cup down on the bare wooden table and just says it.

"Did you see it comin'?"

Mrs. Kelly, in the middle of a story about her sewing circle, glances at her. Her voice, when she speaks, is very soft.

"'Tisn't that I saw it coming. Just that I always knew it was going to happen."

Velma goes very still. "What d'ya mean?"

Mrs. Kelly puts her own cup down. "He's a bit more like his father than he likes to admit, John is," she says. "Oh, I know what you're going to say, dear," she continues when she sees Velma open her mouth to protest, "and in that one way, no, they're not the same at all. Me boy, he's seen too much for it to drown him. To turn him." She is silent for a moment. "But then, so had his da."

"What was he like?" Velma asks quietly. "Ice's dad?"

Mrs. Kelly sighs. "Hunted. Like the devil was after him, always."

"Ice never talked about him," Velma says, remembering the look in his eyes that last night. "It was more what he didn't say that told me what it was like."

"Well, no, he wouldn't want to," Mrs. Kelly says. "He wouldn't have cause to. He doesn't remember the good times."

Velma glances at her, curious in spite of herself. "The good times."

"There were some," Mrs. Kelly says. "There always are, aren't there."

"I never heard of any," Velma says, feeling herself rise to Ice's defense in his absence. "Just that—well, there's a reason Ice is good in a fight."

"Oh, I'm not defendin' what he became," Mrs. Kelly says quickly. "Don't make no mistake on that. It's just…" She hesitates. "'Tisn't always as simple as good and evil, black and white, Velma dear. I remember what he was before, and what became of that boy. And it's so far removed I can pity him, now."

"What happened?" asks Velma. She wants—needs—to know. How could the man who fathered Ice go so wrong and become the monster who stole his son's childhood?

Mary Kelly sighs. "What always happens. War. He went away, and then—"

Velma feels the bottom of her stomach drop, remembers a boy lying still on the pavement. "Did he kill someone?"

"I don't know," says Mrs. Kelly. "All I ever knew was that he saw things he couldn't forget and he changed, after. He came back with a dishonorable discharge in '42 and began to drink. Sure and they said it was a bar fight, but I knew it was the drink that killed him.

"He was a terrible drunk," the woman says, shaking her head. "Laid a hand to everyone and everything he could. Didn't matter who or what. When it started, he was always sorry, after, and he'd do his best to make it up to us. He blamed himself for his weakness, he called it. For not being able to fix everything. I think he hated himself more than anyone, really."

Velma inhales sharply. This, she thinks, sounds all too familiar.

"Yes," Mrs. Kelly says, her gaze kind. "John is like that, too."

Velma bites her lip. He is, but to compare him to—well—

She shakes her head. "They're not the same, though," she says, her voice low and passionate. Velma thinks she gets where Mrs. Kelly is going with this but Ice's mother needs to know that he had the chance to go down that road and he chose to turn away. Whatever it cost him, he _chose_ to be different. "He's got more of you in him than anyone else. He's—" Velma hesitates, feels childish, says it anyway. "—_good_."

Mrs. Kelly covers Velma's hand with hers and smiles a bit. "I like to think so," she says softly. "It would mean he could settle, one day. He's still got the old blood in him. He wants, so badly, and he doesn't know how to ease that pain."

"What does he want?"

The words fall from her, plaintive in that stark silence. There it is, Velma thinks, heart aching. There—the question she has longed to find the answer to all along.

Mrs. Kelly sighs. "I wish I knew," she says, her voice slow and heavy. "'Twasn't my blood that gave it to him. But—he's my son, and I believe in him. Whatever it is, he'll find it."

"His dad never did," says Velma. "Did he."

Mrs. Kelly shakes her head. "The worse he got the less he remembered who he truly was and when you've lost sight of yourself," she says with a troubled look, "you've no hope."

Velma absorbs this in silence. It's one of the saddest things she's ever heard, she thinks, and even more so in that it's not just a story. It's real, and it happened—is still happening—to someone she still, despite all efforts, cares very much about.

"In the end I suppose he wasn't as bad as all that, though," Mary Kelly says, her faded blue eyes and voice far away. "After all, he gave me my boy."

Velma gazes at her. "But—he hit him," she says, her voice slow and strange and uncomprehending to her own ears. She doesn't need to specify who. "He hit _you_."

Mrs. Kelly sighs, a long, terrible sigh.

"That he did," she says quietly. "And it took many years before I learned to forgive him. Not for what he'd done to me—for me boy."

Velma can't imagine being in this situation, and finding the heart to do what Mrs. Kelly has done. "Why did you?"

"I decided I didn't want it eatin' me up inside," Mrs. Kelly says simply. "Nor John. Sean hurt us terribly, yes, but I think in the end what he did to himself was worse."

Velma shakes her head. "But what he did—"

"Hate solves nothin'," Mrs. Kelly says. She smiles a little. "Maybe love doesn't, either—but at least it's got a fightin' chance."

Velma sits back, crumbles a bit of her cake into dust. She thinks, now, about a phantom dressed in red, her soul bleeding in front of her on the pavement. Would she have done it? Velma wonders. Would she, who had kept loving her brother's killer, find the strength to forgive her lover's murderer?

They make small talk for a few minutes more, until Velma says she has to be getting home for dinner. She does—and she also has to think about what she has just heard, and what it means.

She has just reached the door when the question comes, unbidden. "Why do ya go by Mrs. Kelly?"

Mary Kelly Callahan shrugs. "Easier, maybe. That, and John doesn't like anything te do with his da." She smiles a little. "Wanted to make a name for himself, I s'pose. He's a funny one with names, that one. Ice. John. No matter what he calls himself, though, he's still me boy."

Velma looks at her, sees anew the lines etched in her face. One for every care, is the old wives' tale, but now she thinks it's true. Mary Kelly has had far more than her fair share of worries and she can see why Ice has always been so protective of her.

Sad, he'd said once. Like a little bird.

"Happy Mother's Day," she says, softly, and Mrs. Kelly smiles.

No, Velma thinks. Maybe he doesn't see it. Probably his father never did, either. But underneath her sadness is the bright steely core that has helped Mrs. Kelly survive this long. And forgive the unforgivable—what Velma doesn't know if she ever could have done in her place. What Mary Kelly's son should have said, she thinks as she turns to leave, was strong.

.

It's mid-May, and the Jets are restless once more.

"Whaddaya say we all take a walk down to PR-land an' have us a little fun?"

"C'mon, Action," says Baby John, sounding frustrated, "we said we was gonna leave 'em alone—"

"An' we have, ain't we?" demands Action, cracking his knuckles. The Jets, Velma, Minnie, Pauline, and a couple of the female hangers-on are sitting outside Doc's after a stop at the ice cream parlor. "But I an' everyone else here is getting' bored sittin' on our tootsies, an' I don't see why we can't have a little fun, huh? Not that kind!" he adds in irritation as Pauline drapes herself over his shoulders.

"Aww, come off it, Daddy-O," A-Rab whines, licking his cone. "It's too hot to go off chasin' Spics."

"Too hot?" Action glares at him. "Listen, you stupid—"

"We oughta be takin' care of them Reds," Anybodys remarks. "The Sharks ain't givin' us no trouble, an' I hear Reaper's gettin' better an' better. An' you can bet he ain't forgotten us. PR's are small fry compared to them."

Velma glances at Anybodys, just in time to see Baby John give her a tiny nod.

A-Rab snickers. "Who're you to talk about small fry, huh?"

Anybodys glares at him. "Yeah? Says the head of the Lollipop Guild."

A-Rab reddens. "Why you—"

At that, Anybodys's hand flashes out to the boy's chest and gives a good, hard twist through his shirt before she springs up and dashes away, cackling all the while. A-Rab, howling, gives chase and for the next five minutes, Velma watches them tear up, down, and around the street, yelling a blue streak the whole time. The Jets, used to this, don't pay too much attention until Action manages to shake Pauline off and barks a quick "Siddown!" at them.

Anybodys, panting, flops down onto the stoop. A-Rab, his face sullen, isn't too far behind. It only takes a minute before they're at it again, though this time, mindful of their captain, they keep their bickering to a furious whisper. Anyone, to look at their faces, thinks Velma, would guess they hated each other.

All she sees, though, is the way their hands are propped behind them, so close their fingertips are almost touching.

A-Rab says something, then, and it must be something like his usual pearls of wisdom because in an instant, Anybodys snatches her hand up and whacks him on the head. But even as he's ducking from her fists he can't stop laughing, and Anybodys, outraged as she looks, has the tiniest hint of a grin on her face.

So, Velma thinks, neither surprised nor unsurprised. She thinks, then, that she was right, in a way. Maybe the girl doesn't know, or understand it yet, but—Anybodys does believe in love.

.

When the day comes, Velma dresses with her usual care, taking the time to make sure her collar lies flat and her skirt is perfectly pressed. After all, she thinks, a girl only graduates from high school once in her life.

Backstage, where all the seniors have gathered before they're supposed to line up and sit down in the auditorium before they march across the stage to get their diplomas, Velma finds Clarice and smiles.

"Almost time. You ready?"

Clarice gives a theatrical shrug. "I guess so. One more hour, an' we're free of old Woodrow Wilson High forever. Can ya believe it?"

"Well, I never thought it'd be like this," says Velma quietly, looking around at the people milling around them. "Did you?"

Clarice shakes her head. Today she is alone. Bernice is in the audience with Graziella. "No. I didn't."

"So now what?" Velma asks. "You goin' to marry Big Deal?"

"Thinkin' about it," Clarice says, her arch voice tempered by the smirk on her face.

Velma smiles, a little. "How's Gee-Tar goin' to like that?"

"He'll have to. Speakin'-a that, Vel, it's the funniest thing," says Clarice, sounding puzzled. "They used to hate each other, an' now—I mean, they ain't best buddies again or nothin', but now it seems like they can stand each other again."

"Things change, I guess," says Velma, twisting the tassel on her cap around her fingers. "It's good they ain't fightin', right?"

Clarice sighs. "I guess. I mean," she adds with a hint of mischief in her dark eyes, "I don't know how I'll keep Frankie on his toes now, but I guess I'll think-a somethin'. Might ask Rosalia," she adds with a smirk. "God knows she knows how to torture her boyfriend. And us. _Dio mio_, you shoulda seen what she did yesterday!"

Velma listens with wide eyes as Clarice tells her about the Shark girl's latest escapade, in which she had dyed Mr. Gambini's shirts pink, given Izzy Coca-Cola instead of formula, and nearly burned all their tongues off with twice as much chili pepper as necessary in the empanada dinner she'd made them—all in one day. "How'd ya end up with her again?" she asks. "I mean she seems nice, but…not the best babysitter." And Rosalia is a Shark, she thinks, puzzled. Velma knows the Puerto Ricans are on better terms with the Jets right now, but—still.

Clarice shrugs. "I don't know how Mama found her, but for a Shark girl, she's ain't so bad. Silly, a-course, an' seems to get into trouble an awful lot, but she always means well, an' Izzy loves her. Even Bernice don't mind her too much." She dimples. "Keeps sayin' Izzy'll grow up lovin' spicy food, though."

The corner of Velma's mouth quirks up. "She would."

"And—" Clarice hesitates. "Vel, don't tell anyone, but Rosalia's got a bun in the oven!"

Velma blinks, startled. "What?"

"'Bout three or four months, she figured," nods Clarice. "She's real excited."

"Rosalia told ya that?" Velma asks, and bites her lip. "She ain't married, is she?"

Clarice shrugs, a little. "She ain't yet, but she's so scatterbrained she ain't the type to worry about that. She's just real happy, is all. Keeps talkin' about how she can't wait to tell Indio, an' her best friend Luis, an' how her kid an' Izzy can be best friends." Clarice smirks. "Kinda cute, actually."

Velma sits back. There is so much to absorb that she doesn't quite know what to ask about first. Finally she settles on what any former Jet captain's girl would.

"Indio's lieutenant now, right? How's havin' a kid goin' to work with that?" Velma remembers a harassed-looking Tiger rushing into his and Graziella's apartment, pouring out apologies. "I don't guess you earn much money bein' a Shark."

Clarice frowns. "Hadn't thought-a that," she admits. "I guess they'll figure it out somehow."

"What d'ya think is goin' on with them?" asks Velma a bit wistfully. "Them, an' the Jets?"

Clarice shrugs. "Don't know about the Sharks. An' Frankie don't tell me much, but I know somethin's up with the Jets. I can tell." She hesitates. "Like maybe the Reds are comin' back."

Velma feels the bottom of her stomach drop. If they're back now, she thinks, breathless, then what was the rumble for? What was it all for, if it is all just beginning again?

Clarice takes one look at her and sighs. "Look, I didn't want to say nothin', but ya need to get out, Vel," she says, dark eyes serious. "Ya need to stop thinkin' about this. It ain't good for you to be shut up in school or your room all the time. An' now that we're done with school—"

Velma shrugs, tracing patterns on her skirt. "I don't much care."

There is a silence, and Velma watches Clarice fidget before looking straight at her. "Look," she says, "Frankie's got a friend he wants ya to meet—"

"He a Jet?" Velma asks, unable to keep the sharpness out of her voice. As the Jets have gotten used to Ice's absence and Mouthpiece being around, Graziella has taken to asking her how Mouthpiece is, and Velma is tired, so tired, of telling her that he is just a friend—albeit a better friend than she'd ever thought possible—when it seems no one has ever heard of the concept of a boy and a girl being just that. Though a long time ago, Velma supposes, she wouldn't have believed it either.

Clarice shakes her head. "No," she says, with the slightest hesitation. "We kinda thought—I an' Frankie—that you'd had enough-a that for awhile."

Velma sighs, feeling a bit guilty. Clarice isn't Graziella, she reminds herself in a moment of curious relief. "Well, you were right."

"His name's Bobby Benson. He's real nice, Vel," Clarice says, her voice eager. "Frankie knows him from playin' basketball sometimes. Says he's a real good guy an' you'd like him."

Velma bites her lip. "I don't know, Clarice. I don't think I'm ready for that." Or ever will be, she leaves unsaid. How can she think about meeting someone when it is all she can do to hold herself together?

"Please," Clarice says quietly. "Just give it a shot."

Velma sighs. She can see the worry on her friend's face, and she has been there, begging and pleading for someone to let her in, and she supposes it can't hurt too much to let Clarice try. "Sure. I guess."

The brunette smiles, then, and relaxes. "It'll be fun, Vel," she says, her voice cheery. "Wait an' see."

They call for the seniors to line up, then, and so Velma smiles back at Clarice, touches her hand before moving to the front of the procession just behind Agnes Allen. Sure, she thinks as the line begins to move. She sees a teacher draw back the curtain, sees Stewart Abbott step out into the light. Maybe it will be the start of something new and exciting. Maybe.

But she knows better than to hope by now.

.

A week later, Velma is sitting, as she is less and less these days, alone in Doc's, when the door opens and a tall, skinny girl dressed all in brown walks in.

"Midge," says Velma, surprised. "I ain't seen you in ages."

The bespectacled girl blinks, owlishly. "My father requested that I stay away from areas where gang members are known to congregate, and I have been respecting his wishes until, out of necessity, I was forced to come here. I was hoping," she says, "to find Mouthpiece."

"Mouthpiece?" Velma asks, startled. "Why?"

Midge clears her throat and hefts a large, square parcel. "I've found a rather fascinating book on trains," she says, "and I thought he might like to take a look."

Velma half-smiles, and hopes it has lots of pictures. "I bet he would. He ain't here, though."

"Well. If you would, please tell him I have the book when you see him," the girl says, and takes a few steps back before clearing her throat again. "Congratulations on your commencement," she says primly.

Velma blinks. "Thanks."

"What will you do now?" asks Midge, peering through her glasses with what seems to be genuine interest.

Velma shrugs. "What is there to do?"

"Why, college, of course," says the girl as though scandalized. "And marriage, I suppose," she adds, seeming reluctant to mention it, though it is in fact what most of Velma's classmates are headed off to, and the future she'd once planned out for herself. "Or employment."

"I don't know," Velma says. She remembers a dream once held very close to her heart, and sighs. "Everything's different from what I thought it'd be so I just don't know."

Midge studies her for a moment, then nods. "You still love him, don't you." She says it with a certain amount of puzzlement, and clinical detachment, like a doctor inspecting a patient.

Velma looks at her, startled. The girl's eyes are fastened on her with what seems like scientific curiosity. Normally she'd find the question rude, given the events of the last month and a half, but Velma is fairly certain Midge isn't asking so she can gossip about it later—the girl barely even talks to anyone Velma knows. In fact, she's a little surprised Midge even knows Ice is gone. So she sighs. "He has all of me," she says. "I guess that's love."

"What does it feel like?" asks the bespectacled girl, eyes keen and piercing. "Being in love?"

Velma, too tired to lie, shrugs. "Well, right now, it hurts."

Midge's gaze doesn't budge. "And it didn't before?"

Velma glances at her. "Well—" Now that she thinks about it, actually, Midge has a point. "I guess it always hurts, somehow. It's just a question of how much."

"I'd like to study it, so I can avoid it," says the girl, pushing up her glasses with a frown. "It doesn't seem very productive."

Velma half-smiles. "No. I guess not."

Midge pinches the bridge of her nose. "Well. I should be going. Congratulations, again."

She's nearly to the exit when Velma clears her throat and Midge turns.

"You were right," Velma tells her, the words spilling out, because she needs someone to know this and no one else will understand why—not Graziella, not Clarice, not anyone who was there that night. "The rumble—it was stupid. All of it was, an' we never knew. You were right."

The girl regards her with a strange, solemn look. "I nearly always am."

And then she leaves, and Velma thinks, for the thousandth time, if only. If only they'd known what everyone else seemed to. If only.


End file.
